


Taken

by cinnamon_rolling



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Enemies to Friends, Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:48:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 40,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23379379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamon_rolling/pseuds/cinnamon_rolling
Summary: He tries to move, but finds himself firmly held in place. He looks down; thick cuffs connected to the chair are secured around his wrists and ankles. Tamlin smirks down at him, green eyes blazing into his own. “Welcome to the Spring Court. You will remain here for the next month."Tamlin calls in the favor Feyre owes him for Rhys' life.
Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Comments: 74
Kudos: 152





	1. Welcome to the Spring Court

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't read the series in a while, but I still adore the characters :) so I'm writing a story about feysand's child. I don't remember the small details from canon, so bear with me! I am religiously using the acotar wiki site, since I don't have access to the series. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> **Cirron's name is pronounced "sir-RAHN"**

He slowly wakes to a sharp ringing piercing his skull. He groans, blinking his eyes open. The room is fuzzy; bright. Too bright. He closes his eyes again.  
  
“Wake up.” A deep voice demands.  
  
It startles him, and he snaps his eyes open. That voice. His head clears almost immediately. He instinctively reaches for his power… but nothing manifests. His well of power feels frighteningly dry. Though caught off guard, he recognizes this empty feeling, has felt it during special training with Uncle Az. Faebane.  
  
He tries to move, but finds himself firmly held in place. He looks down; thick cuffs connected to the chair are secured around his wrists and ankles. It must be in the handcuffs.  
  
He looks up at his captor, though he doesn't need to. He can tell by the floral scent of the breeze through the windows, the vases of tulips and hyacinths, the verde walls; he is in the Spring Court.  
  
Tamlin smirks down at him, green eyes blazing into his own. “Welcome to the Spring Court. You will remain here for the next month.”  
  
He glares.  
  
The smirk only grows. “The comfort of your stay is entirely up to you. The less civil you are, the more your living conditions worsen.”  
  
He takes a deep breath. Puts on a straight face like his father has always taught him. _The moment you seem unbalanced is the moment you lose,_ Father’s teaching rings in his ears.   
  
Tamlin’s smirk shifts to a look of disgust. “You look just like him.”  
  
Instead of entertaining him further, Cirron looks around, an unimpressed wrinkle to his nose. “I hope I’ll have better accommodations than this.” He pointedly tugs at his restraints.  
  
Tamlin ignores him. “You will be staying in these chambers. If you try to reach your family or escape before your allotted time, you will take up a new residence somewhere far worse.” He turns to leave. “Be grateful you’re even staying in the manor.” He walks toward the door, and nearly exits before he stops and says, “Dinner is at six. You will be escorted there and back. You are not permitted to leave this room.” With the final word, he slams the door behind him.  
  
Once he’s sure the High Lord is out of earshot, he allows himself to sigh, a frown settling on his face. Everything had happened so fast.  
  
He had joined his parents in a meeting between Night and Spring. His mother wants to begin work on human-fae relations; but in order to do so she needs access to the border between the Mortal Lands and Prythian.  
  
Tamlin presented absolutely ridiculous terms and conditions, with impossible deadlines and outlandish requirements. At first his parents had tried to be cordial with the, frankly, insane male, but he was stubborn; unyielding. Eventually his mother, tired of the games, colourfully asked him what he wanted. A smirk identical to the one he had woken up to spread on Tamlin’s face as he called in a favor. Specifically, the favor Feyre owed Tamlin for Rhys’ life.  
  
The High Lord of the Spring Court had been very clear with his conditions: two months, no contact with family. He’d sworn that if they followed through with the deal, he would allow the Night Court complete, unchecked access to the border with no terms or conditions for the rest of his existence. It had begun with a bargain, and thus is how it would end.  
  
At first his father chuckled at the proposition, power swirling behind him. However, the more Tamlin pressed, the less amused he became until eventually he was furious, power overwhelming the room at the fact that Tamlin had even _considered_ taking away his child.  
  
Cirron watched as his parents had a conversation only they could hear. Before he could reach for their minds, his father linked him into their conversation.  
  
_It’s up to you,_ Father’s voice was tense with fury.  
  
_Would he actually live up to his end of the agreement?_  
  
_Probably not,_ his mother’s humourless voice echoed in his mind.  
  
...  
  
_I’ll do it._  
  
He could feel his parents’ immediate horror at his answer. He continued.  
  
_This prat has been a thorn in your sides for too long. I’d like to make this one agreement with him easier if I can._  
  
_You don’t need to carry that burden,_ his father sounded desperate; scared. He felt his mother agree with him.  
  
_I need to try. We’ll never get anything done with his other option._  
  
When Cirron met his father’s wide-eyed gaze, he looked distraught. Shocked. Then heartbroken.  
  
_I’ll be okay._ He offered them what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Then he looked at Tamlin dead in the eye and said, “You have a bargain.”  
  
The grin Tamlin sent him in response was victorious. “Excellent.”  
  
Tamlin magicked a fresh contract out of nowhere, with the new conditions. Rhys laughed and dissolved it to dust. Then a blank contract form and pen appeared in his hand, and he began writing his own requirements.  
  
The rest of the meeting was a mess. Both parties arguing, pushing for their own terms. It went on for at least an hour. Finally, it was settled: One month, earned equal treatment, and a weekly mental conversation with anyone in their court. Tamlin refused to budge any further. If he were being honest, the lack of further regulations worried him, but he had put on a brave face. Now he sees he had been right to worry.  
  
His parents begrudgingly signed the agreement, mentally giving him words of encouragement, advice, and love. Tamlin was swift in grabbing him and winnowing away. No sooner had he touched the ground before he was knocked unconscious.  
  
And now here he is. For the next month, it seems. He swallows thickly as the reality of what he agreed to begins to set in. He didn’t even get to say goodbye. He won’t see Mother, Father, or the rest of his family for a _month_. He’s going to _live_ with the lowlife who ruined his parents’ lives and incited a war.  
  
He furrows his brow. Sets his face. _Easy, Cirron,_ he scolds himself. _It’s for thirty days. It’s not forever. You can do this._  
  
Suddenly he feels a tingling sensation in his arm. He looks, and a smile spreads on his face. There’s an extra design on his tattoo: a small eye. It’d be unnoticeable to anyone else but him. Though faint, he can feel his parents; their pride of his maturity. It bolsters his confidence even more. He’s heir to the Night Court, son of the most powerful High Lord and Lady in the history of Prythian. He will bow to no one.


	2. Who Are You?

He doesn’t know exactly how long he sits in that chair, but judging by the movement of the sun it has been hours. There’s a knock on his door, startling him out of his light doze. He has a few precious seconds to pull himself together and put his mask of indifference into place before the door swings open.  
  
A male his age walks in with a mobile set of cuffs identical to the ones currently holding his wrists. He seems to be a soldier; there’s a sword on his hip and his uniform is pressed and pristine, not to mention his perfectly straight back. His cold eyes peer into his own. “I will be escorting you to dinner with High Lord Tamlin.”  
  
He snorts in response. “So serious.”  
  
The male says nothing in return. Instead he strides over and cuffs his wrists, placing them slightly further up from the cuffs built into the arm rests. Then he releases all the cuffs connected to the chair. Cirron sighs at the relief.  
  
He’s not allowed the peaceful moment for long. The male drags him up by the shackle connecting the two cuffs. He stumbles, blood rushing to his numb legs, but he manages to keep his footing. The male starts walking briskly, and this time he does fall over. “Hey!” He yells annoyed. “I haven’t moved in hours. Give me a minute.”  
  
The male huffs, but nonetheless halts. Cirron winces as pins and needles run down the length of his leg. The male very literally gives him exactly one minute, before he’s yanked forward again.  
  
The walk to the dining room is originally silent.  
  
“Will you be my escort every day?” He asks the male.  
  
No response.  
  
“How long will dinner last?”  
  
The male keeps his gaze straight ahead.  
  
“Have you been ordered to stay silent or are you just that entitled?”  
  
That earns him a dirty scowl. But he remains silent. Cirron sighs, and drops the prospect of conversation.  
  
They arrive at the open doors of the dining hall. Tamlin is there already, sitting at the head of the long table. Satisfaction gleams in his eyes when he notices the cuffs around his wrist. He gestures to the seat to his left.  
  
“Come, sit.”  
  
He has a moment to wonder who the seat on the right is for before he is yanked forward _again_ by this male, and he glares. He’s unceremoniously shoved into the seat. Then his throat is grabbed and the male growls in his ear, “If you so much as think about touching your power, you’re going straight to the dungeons. There are prisoners down there who I’m sure would love to play with you.”  
  
He wrinkled his nose. “Get off me. Don’t forget your place.”  
  
The male lets out a dry chuckle, leaning back. “And you call me entitled.” Then he releases the thick chain. The individual cuffs remain on his wrists, halting his power. The male walks around the table and sits at Tamlin’s right. He blinks.  
  
The male smirks at him. “Surprised?” Cirron scowls and looks away. The male and Tamlin have similar features, though not close enough for him to realize earlier. The same shade of golden hair, similar facial structure, the same sneer. Sitting at Tamlin’s right hand. This _must_ be his son. If he’s his son, then…  
  
“Why have you been kept a secret from the courts?” Cirron asks, perfect eyebrow quirked. To his delight, he seems to have hit a nerve as the male’s face turns dark. Tamlin clears his throat. “It is not necessary for the other courts to know.”  
  
The other’s face darkens more. Cirron presses further.  
  
“If pride isn’t enough for you to declare the existence of your son, is it not a wise idea to state this crucial detail for the safety of your court? Currently, the High Lords believe that if they're able to do away with you then they would easily take over Spring, since, hypothetically, there is no heir. Are you able to live with the fact that at any moment someone could attack, and with your lack of military fortitude-”  
  
Tamlin slams his fist on the table, and the glasses and silverware rattle. Silence. “The only reason,” he growls, “That the Spring Court is in such a disarray is because of _your parents._ ”  
  
Cirron stares at him. Then, voice unfaltering, he says, “You incited everything they did to you. And you never answered my question.”  
  
Tamlin glares at him. “Shut up. You are not allowed to speak for the remainder of dinner.”  
  
Cirron rolls his eyes, but focuses on his food. He peers at it; his plate is surely laced with faebane. But it’s been hours since he last ate. And no matter how much he rebels, a bargain is a bargain; he’ll be here for a month. He may as well eat.  
  
The rest of dinner is held in silence. Cirron grimaces as he chews his food. There’s so much faebane in it that he can actually taste the chemical. He only eats about half the plate before he sets his fork down; he fears there may be long term damage to his well of power if he eats anymore.  
  
Once Tamlin finishes, he rises from his seat. “I have business to attend to.” He turns a glare toward Cirron, who keeps his face nonchalant. “You will stay in your room tonight. No entertainment. Leo will escort you to breakfast tomorrow.” With that, he takes his leave.  
  
With him out of the way, Cirron focuses on the male in front of him. Leo. Son of Spring, kept a secret. Why? Perhaps he was a mistake, a consequence of late-night wrong decisions. Perhaps he is a long lost son who one day appeared at the doors of the manor.  
  
Regardless, he is here, living with his father. Cirron studies his face. Thick golden curls curve around pointed ears and fall into angry, mocha eyes. His slightly angled jaw is set with tension. His lips are pursed and his thick brows are furrowed as he glares at his food.  
  
Right on cue, Leo says, “Stop staring at me.”  
  
Cirron simply tilts his head. “You don’t seem very on board with the idea of being kept a secret.”  
  
Leo looks up to glare at him. “I don’t want to hear what your silver tongue has to say.”  
  
“Well I appreciate the compliment but I’m asking out of true surprise. I really had no idea you existed.”  
  
Leo’s glower worsens, but he says nothing. He sets his fork down, seemingly done with his plate.  
  
“If you’re done then I will escort you to your room,” he says instead. He stands, and Cirron watches as he comes around and reattaches the shackle to the cuffs.  
  
Before he pulls on the chain, Cirron stands on his own. “I’d rather come out of this with as few bruises as possible, thanks.”  
  
Leo purses his lips, but keeps his hand on the chain as he leads them back to his… room.  
  
The walk is silent; he can almost feel the anger emanating off of him, so he doesn’t pry anymore. No use getting pushed around more than he needs to.  
  
Once they reach his room, the shackle connecting his cuffs is hooked onto a long chain, which is in turn connected to the bedpost. Upon closer inspection of the bed, he sees that it is firmly secured to the floor.  
  
He frowns, looking at Leo. “What if I have to piss?”  
  
Leo snorts. “Either hold it or…” he trails off and gestures to the waste bin barely within reach.  
  
He’s sure his face is affronted, with the chuckle he gets from his captor. Task complete, Leo starts toward the door. Over his shoulder he says, “Remember, the better you act, the better your accommodations. I’ll be back to pick you up at 7:55.” With that he walks out the door. The door that is then locked from the outside with a resounding click.  
  
Cirron groans, flopping on the surprisingly plush bed and staring at the ceiling. What a crazy day. Just last evening he was snug in his own room. His life has changed drastically in less than 24 hours.  
  
He looks at the eye on his arm. It stares back. He can still feel his parents. Their encouragement. Gratitude. Pain. He sends his own encouragement through the bond. This male, if he even meets the criteria of being one, has been a thorn in their side for too long. Since first hearing about the horrors of Spring he’s wanted to alleviate his parent’s pain. Now he has a chance, and he absolutely refuses to mess it up. So he will endure what it takes to help his parents rid this male of their lives, no matter the pressure his captors force on him.  
  
Being internally and externally bombarded with faebane is taking its toll, and he soon finds himself struggling to keep his eyes open. The plush mattress of the bed is incredibly comfortable after such a long day. Though it’s much earlier than his normal bedtime, he feels himself drifting off and he welcomes it, precious sleep overtaking him within seconds.


	3. And So It Begins

He wakes to the sound of a gentle female voice. His head is foggy and his body feels weak. Drained. He swallows in an effort to soothe his dry throat; it doesn’t do him much good. He groans.  
  
The voice is insistent and, though gentle, it pierces his skull. He grabs a pillow and burrows his head under it. The voice stops talking, and he’s relieved. Then he feels a small hand on his shoulder. He grits his teeth; this person is remarkably persistent.  
  
Slowly, ever so slowly, he peers out from under his pillow. His bleary eyes meet warm brown ones that are lined with faint crows feet. She smiles, though it’s more of a grimace. “Apologies, your grace,” she says, “But it’s nearing 7:30 and I need to get you ready for breakfast.”  
  
Breakfast… he looks around, then jerks up, not recognizing where he is. The sound of shackles ring out, and his eyes dart to his wrists; He’s in chains. Why is he in chains?  
  
He doesn’t realize how quickly he’s breathing until the small hand is on his back. The woman moves her hand up and down, trying to calm him. She urges him to relax and try to breathe deeper.  
  
Despite having no idea who she is, he trusts her and uses her hand as a guide for his breathing. Once he calms, guilt hits him and he glares at the sheets. Uncle Az would be disappointed; all his training for these types of situations went flying out the window.  
  
The hand on his back halts. With the loss of the soothing motion he remembers why he was woken up. He clears his throat, and though his body feels exhausted he tries to pull himself together. He looks at the woman. “Thank you for helping me.”  
  
The woman offers him a gentle smile in return. “It’s my job.” She looks down at his shackles and purses her lips. “If I release the chain of the cuffs, will you cooperate?” Her soft gaze turns fierce, daring him to step out of line. He blinks at the sudden change, then nods his head.  
  
Then the gentle smile is back and she releases the chains from handcuffs. Without thinking, he shoots from the bed and begins stretching his sore body. Sighs escape him as his bones pop back into place and his muscles relax. He is an Illyrian; he hates sitting down for too long, let alone being held in _chains._  
  
Once he feels suitably unrestricted, save for the shackles on his wrist, he places his hands behind his back and looks at the woman expectantly. She leads the way to the bathroom, picking up a resting pile of clothes on the way.  
  
She’s very short, barely reaching his chest. Her graying, chestnut hair is pulled back into a tight bun and her aged, brown eyes are kind. He thinks he likes this woman.  
  
While she starts the shower he relieves himself. She lets him shower and bathe on his own, allowing him that dignity, then offers him plush towels. He dresses himself, though repulsed at the sight of himself in brown and green, and is led to the vanity in his room. The woman works quickly, brushing his short hair into his preferred style and he appreciates her even more.  
  
“If I may ask, what is your name?”  
  
She meets his eyes in the mirror when she answers. “Matilde.”  
  
He offers her a genuine smile, “I really appreciate this.”  
  
“Just doing my job, hon.” The added term of endearment confirmed his suspicions that she is on the farther side of life.  
  
Right when she puts the brush down, there’s a firm knock on his door. Matilde quickly pulls out the thick shackle and, to his dismay, reconnects the cuffs before hurrying over to open the door. Leo walks in. He takes one look at Cirron and chuckles. “Green doesn’t suit you,” he jabs as he crosses his arms. “Hurry or we’ll be late.”  
  
Cirron looks up, seeming to pray to the very heavens for strength before he stands and lets Leo drag him out the door.  
  
——  
  
His food contains more faebane than before. This time he only eats a quarter of his plate before he pointedly puts his fork down.  
  
“You realize there are limits to how much faebane you can use on someone.”  
  
Both Tamlin and Leo ignore him. Cirron sighs, and slouches in his seat. The ingested faebane only drags him down further, a dull ache forming in the back of his head. It’s going to be a long day.  
  
After breakfast, Tamlin says, “Leo will be your escort today.” They glare at each other as Tamlin rises and leaves the room.  
  
Though sluggish, Cirron raps his fingers on the table, making sure to rattle the cuffs. “So? Will I get a tour of my new abode?” He may actually go insane if he stays in that bedroom for the whole day.  
  
“It’s hardly your home, if those clothes are anything to go by. Thankfully you’ll be gone before long.”  
  
Cirron feigns insult. “What’s wrong? You don’t enjoy my presence?”  
  
Leo scoffs. “Please, if I had my way you would never have come here in the first place.” He pokes at his leftover food. “And you're interrupting my schedule.”  
  
That piques Cirron’s interest. Finally, a bit of information about his new reluctant partner. “What might this schedule consist of?”  
  
Leo stares at him. “Do you really want to know?”  
  
“Why else would I ask,” he answers flatly.  
  
Leo purses his lips, but says, “You High Lords are confusing. Saying one thing and meaning something else, talking to important people with an ulterior motive, holding centuries-long grudges; it’s a giant game of manipulation that I want no part of.”  
  
Cirron blinks. Cocks his head. “Then why do you want to be recognized by the High Lords? The second you are, you're in the game whether you like it or not.”  
  
He watches as Leo sighs and runs his hand through his golden curls. He seems to have an internal battle before he mutters, “Though it’s contradictory, it’d be nice if my father was proud enough of me to announce that I exist.”  
  
Oh. Cirron had briefly mentioned it to Tamlin at dinner, but he hadn’t realized that Leo truly felt that way. That must be painful.  
  
He opens his mouth to say as much, but Leo lifts a hand. “I don’t want your pity.”  
  
Cirron blinks. Well, fine. He hardens his gaze. “I _do_ expect a tour.”  
  
Leo stands. He comes around the table and shackles his cuffs back together before pulling him up on his feet. Cirron growls and jerks out of his grip. “Stop doing that. I can stand on my own.”  
  
Leo glares at him before walking toward the door. “Follow me.”  
  
Cirron begrudgingly obeys. They walk out the door and through the halls of the manor. Leo gives him a lazy tour with as little information as possible, vaguely pointing to each area and giving instructions. In fact, the majority of the tour was the blonde pointing out everywhere he couldn’t go. Cirron finds himself lost in his thoughts as the male drones on and on, until something he says catches Cirron’s attention.  
  
“What did you say?”  
  
Leo looks on the verge of strangling him as he repeats himself. “This is the art gallery.” He gestures to the doors in front of them.  
  
Cirron stares at the closed doors. His feet seem to move on their own, and with shaky hands he reaches for the handle. Could it be? A saving grace in this torture he subjected himself to?  
  
When he opens the doors, he thinks he could cry. Paintings line the walls, beautiful ones at that. There’s all types of paintings here: of spring, of night, of pain, of beauty, of fear… He stumbles in, steps quiet as he examines each painting. The beauty, and love, and painstaking dedication that went into each one.  
  
He hears Leo’s quiet voice ask, “You like art?”  
  
He nods his head as he reaches up to touch, handcuffs clinking, drawn in, only to pull back at the last second. He wouldn’t want to disrespect the pieces.  
  
“Do you want… to continue the tour?”  
  
He shakes his head. “I’ll be fine here.” Then he spots it. In the far right corner there’s a desk table with a lamp and several drawers.  
  
He hurries toward it. As he opens each drawer, shackles rattling, his heart lifts higher. Different pencils, pens, charcoal, paints, pastels… He looks for parchment and is not disappointed: There are empty sketch pads and canvases on the ground next to the desk.  
  
He sits at the desk in shock. Drags his hands across the expanse of the oak surface as much as he could with his limited movement; it’s sizable, slightly larger than his arm span on all sides.  
  
He grabs a sketch pad and reaches for the pencils in the top drawer. He already knows exactly who he wants to sketch. The familiar rough sound of pencil dragging across paper _does_ bring tears to his eyes. He hears the door close and steps walk away; he pays it no mind. Despite the added difficulty of drawing in handcuffs, he quickly loses himself in bringing the face in his mind to life. Her intense blue-gray eyes that match his own. Her long golden hair. Her sharp cheekbones. Her full lips stretched in the encouraging smile he’s envisioned since he woke up here.  
  
Slowly his mother is brought to life on the paper. He carefully shades just as she taught him to, mindful of the lighting.  
  
Many hours later, he sits back, looking at his work. His mother smiles back at him. And in that room, illuminated only by the afternoon sunlight, he allows the tears to fall down his ashen cheeks. He slouches over the desk, breath shortening until they turn into quiet sobs. He misses her. He misses Father. He misses his crazy cousins. He misses Uncle Cass’ booming laughter, Uncle Az’s steadying presence, Aunt Elain’s sweet disposition, Aunt Nesta’s fortitude, and even Aunt Amren’s general disdain.  
  
It’s only been a _day_. He has to survive a _month._  
  
He feels weak. He brings up his chained hands and rests them on the desk. Stares at them. His wrists are chafed and bruised, and the handcuffs are warm. For a reason he cannot fathom, he reaches for his power. As he expected, he comes up with nothing. He feels terrible; his aching body and pained soul do not want to go on with this deal any longer.  
  
And despite his promise to himself to endure whatever he can to help his parents, he was not expecting this emotional torture. He thought he could do it. He thought he was strong enough. He… he thought he was strong enough to help carry his parents’ pain. He’d never been more wrong.  
  
Suddenly, his arm tingles. Then a small piece of paper and a pen appear next to him.  
  
Tears stream down his cheeks as he recognizes his mother’s lovely handwriting. He slowly reaches for it, picking it up with shaking fingers. As he reads, the words drag a sob out of his throat.  
  
_My Son,  
I love you and am incredibly proud of you for your bravery. Despite all the horrors your father and I have shared with you about our past, you were still willing to march in through those cursed doors and fight for all of us; to fight for your father and I, and for the Mortal Lands. Cirron, words cannot express my pride. I know this is difficult; I have been trapped in that manor before. I feel your pain, your heartache. I _know _you want to come home. You will come home. And after this, you will_ never _have to step foot in that prison again. Your father and I and the rest of our family have full confidence that you can do this.Take it a day at a time, and never forget who you are.  
Love,  
Mother_  
  
The words wash over him, rejuvenating his weakened soul. He takes in a shaky breath. They’re proud of him. He can do this. One day at a time. His body may be aching and beaten, but this isn’t permanent. He’ll be home soon.  
  
He picks up the pen, and writes back.  
  
_I love you._  
  
The paper and pen disappear. A few seconds later, his arm tingles again, and he feels her endless love in return. He smiles.  
  
With new energy, he turns the page and begins drawing his next subject.  
  
Outside, the bright sun gives way to dusk, the sky on fire with warm reds and oranges. Yet he is still sitting there, brow furrowed from intense focus and eyes squinted. He meticulously shades his father’s eyes, trying his hardest to bring alive the starlight dancing in the irises.  
  
Suddenly there’s a knock on the door. He jumps from the unexpected noise. He looks around, blinking harshly to clear his eyes. His scanning gaze catches on the window and he’s shocked. Did that much time truly pass?  
  
The person knocks again, harsher this time, then, “Are you alive?”  
  
Leo. He groans. It must be dinner time. He looks down at his unfinished sketch, and immediately points out all the mistakes. He sighs; there’s always tomorrow. The door squeaks open and unhurried steps come toward him. Cirron quickly snaps the book shut before Leo could see his work; there’s no reason for his captor to see his homesickness.  
  
Leo huffs a sarcastic laugh. “What? Don’t want me to see?”  
  
“You don’t deserve it,” he replies as he returns his pencils to the drawer, before standing. He slides his new sketch pad into the bottom most drawer with the paints; there’s less of a chance someone would look there.  
  
When he turns to Leo, a scowl is on his face. As usual. He decides not to comment, and instead asks, “Time for dinner?”  
  
Leo nods and starts for the door. Cirron follows him, but not before glancing longingly at the room one last time. _I’ll be back,_ he promises before leaving his newfound sanctuary and gently closing the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the gallery in the book didn't have a table, but in this story it's going to. Hope you enjoyed!


	4. Chapter 4

Dinner is eaten in relative silence. Cirron didn’t realize how hungry he was until there was a steaming plate in front of him. Despite the food having just as much faebane as that morning, he finds himself finishing his plate for the first time since he arrived.  
  
Tamlin seems pleased, even comforted at the sight of his empty plate. Probably because he was secured another few days without dealing with his power.  
  
Instead of antagonizing his company, he stays quiet until the other two finish their meals. His head aches more and more as dinner goes on, and he slouches in his seat. Every scrape of a fork against a plate makes him wince. After dinner, Tamlin leaves to do... whatever it is he does in his time, leaving him and Leo alone. He feels the weight of Leo’s gaze on him. Slowly, he lifts his head. Rather than the bitterness he’s grown accustomed to, he sees curiosity in those chocolate eyes.  
  
“What?” He doesn’t feel like playing any games.  
  
“You’re quiet.” Leo’s deep voice is hesitant.  
  
That brings a wry smile to his dull face. “Well I’m tired. And dangerously drugged.”  
  
Apparently there’s some decency in Leo’s heart, since Cirron catches a quick note of fear in Leo’s eyes before they are hardened. He stands, and Cirron chooses to focus on the grain of the table instead of using precious energy glaring at the blonde.  
  
As usual, Leo reshackles the cuffs. He lets himself be pulled up— _woah._ The room tilts and he staggers, barely catching himself on the table. The silverware clatters, and he winces as the sharp noise pierces his skull, effectively amplifying his headache. Leo’s hands hover above his arms, apparently ready to catch him. How sweet.  
  
He grips the sturdy edge, staring at his knuckles as he struggles to center himself. They swim in front of him, prompting him to shut his eyes. _Breathe in four seconds, hold seven, release for eight seconds. Breathe four, hold, release. Breathe…_  
  
He opens his eyes the barest amount. His knuckles are stiff, white from the strength of his grip. He shifts his gaze to the table; his vision remains steady. He blinks, hesitantly straightening up again. He gazes at the walls decorated with flowers, the large windows, the drapes… all steady. He sighs in relief.  
  
When he turns to Leo, he almost snorts. The blonde looks terrified, arms still lingering in the air and mocha eyes full of nothing but concern.  
  
A corner of his mouth quirks. “I’m okay.”  
  
The words snap him out of it, and Leo looks away, clearing his throat. “Yes, of course.”  
  
“I would like to go to my room.” As much as he wanted to go straight back to the gallery, his exhaustion was outweighing even his itch to work on the sketch of his father.  
  
Leo opens his mouth as if to say something, only to shake his head. He awkwardly gestures to the door, then starts leading the way to his room.  
  
Matilde is waiting for him when they arrive. Once Leo bids them both goodnight, Matilde unshackles him and again lets him shower on his own. She leaves him soft cotton pants and a large shirt, which he accepts. Once settled on the bed under the covers, he obediently holds out his wrists. When she doesn’t move, he looks up at her; her crinkled eyes are pained. Then, with a deep sigh she goes through the process of chaining him to the bed.  
  
Afterwards, her fingers come to his hair and rest there, thumb against his forehead. The touch sends a pang through his heart, so loving and familiar, and a lump rises in his throat. She drags her fingers along his scalp.  
  
“I’m sorry you’re going through this, love.” Her voice is soothing, and combined with the petting his body sinks into the bed. The maternal touch calms the part of him that is wired, nervous.  
  
If he tries hard enough he can imagine slimmer fingers and filed-down nails; an artist’s hand. His mother’s hand.  
  
He slurs, “Can you sing?” He can’t bring himself to be embarrassed.  
  
She’s quiet for a few moments, then hums a slow tune. Maybe he’s too out of it to put his finger on it or perhaps he’s never heard the song before, but he doesn’t recognize it. He barely makes it through the first verse before he’s out cold.


	5. Chapter 5

Waking up feels like swimming through mud. His brain struggles to piece together his surroundings and general being.  
  
A small hand is on his shoulder, gently shaking him awake. He doesn't move, still trying to regain his bearings. Where… where is he? Green… spring, he’s in spring. Why… the bargain. Tamlin. Leo. Matilde. Matilde. That’s her hand.  
  
He struggles to get his body to move, to cooperate. Bit by bit, his body obeys: his toes, his fingers, his feet, his arms… and finally his eyes.  
  
He peels open his eyes to a foggy view of Matilde. He blinks hard, trying to clear his vision. After several harsh blinks, she clears and he sees her horrified expression. Goodness. He must be quite the sight if he can scare both Leo _and_ Matilde.  
  
He tries to speak, but nothing comes out. He licks his lips and tries again. “How long—”  
  
“Since dinner.” Her voice is quiet. “Around twelve hours.”  
  
He grimaces. He can’t remember the last time he slept that long. He’s guaranteed to be tired all day.  
  
She reaches over and unshackles the chain. He struggles to sit up, body protesting.  
  
“Maybe you should rest today.” Her voice sounds hesitant. “Or I can ask someone to bring your breakfast to you.”  
  
That prompts a smile. “And deprive your High Lord of his entertainment? Never. I’m sure he would love to see me in this state.”  
  
The twisted joke makes her cringe, and he finds himself regretting saying anything. She may be the one person in this prison who he doesn’t want to upset.  
  
They go through the normal routine of preparing him for his day before Leo picks him up. He had been correct; the grin Tamlin wore when he was brought to the dining table was wide. Feral. He did his best to ignore it. He ate half of his poisonous plate before setting his fork down. As soon as breakfast was over, Leo escorted him to the gallery.  
  
As he ambles to his chair—yes, it is _his_ chair— Leo asks, “Will you… be here all day?”  
  
“Well I don’t have many other places to go, now do I?” He doesn’t bother keeping the bite out of his voice.  
  
As he settles himself in his chair, the door shuts and at once he is alone. He pulls out his sketchbook from the drawer and his pencils, and gets right to work. The day continues on, and he remains in that seat; in that separate realm that solely belongs to him and his life. He sketches Uncle Cass’ smirk, Aunt Amren’s ruby necklace, Truth-Teller; anything that reminds him of his family.  
  
As he’s putting the finishing touches on Yazmine’s soft smile, the door opens. He tenses, but continues sketching. Already? He doesn’t want to leave—not yet.  
  
“Would you like to have dinner brought to you?” Leo’s voice drifts across the empty space.  
  
The faint sound of pencil on paper pauses, and the room is truly silent.  
  
“Why the sudden kindness today? Yesterday you despised me.” Cirron’s voice is cold.  
  
Leo doesn’t reply.  
  
Cirron considers, then sighs, moving to get up. “I’ll go. I need to stretch my legs anyway.  
  
Dinner is again quiet. Afterwards, he’s brought to his room and, just as before, falls right asleep.  
  
This becomes his daily routine; eating the bare minimum and staying in the gallery all day. His blank sketch pad quickly fills with sketches of his life and family. He avoids any mirrors; he doesn’t need one to know he looks sickly. Weight drops off him from the lack of the three solid meals he was used to, he isn’t allowed in the training halls, and the faebane regularly chokes his power. As the week goes on, the bags under his eyes seem etched in his skin and the scowl on his face is fixed.  
  
At the end of the week, he’s leaning over the desk with his arms covering his face, when the door swings open and long strides cross the room. At first he thinks it’s Leo, but a quick whiff of the air quickly confirms that it is _not._  
  
He barely manages to sit up before he is dragged out of his seat. He immediately growls, trying to wrestle himself from Tamlin’s hold but he’s not strong enough.  
  
Tamlin yanks in warning. “Do you want to meet with your _family_ or not?”  
  
He stiffens. “W-What?” As soon as the word leaves his mouth he hates how desperate it sounds.  
  
Then he remembers the new conditions his parents had pushed so hard for; a weekly mental conversation with someone in their court.  
  
Hope fills his heart; hope and relief and love for his parents for not yielding to Tamlin’s conditions.  
  
Tamlin, sensing his palpable excitement, growls and says, “It’s only for ten minutes. And you’ll be in a guarded room. And if you even hint to _anyone_ that Leo exists, let alone that he is my son,” Tamlin pulls him closer to growl in his ear, “You’ll be chained far more severely and locked in your room for the rest of the month.” Then he shoves Cirron away and continues dragging him to an undetermined location.  
  
They arrive at a small room. The walls are white and empty, and the polished wood floor is spotless. Soldiers line the walls, inches apart; he counts 20. And there, in the middle of the room, is the familiar chair with built in handcuffs.  
  
Tamlin drags him through the door and practically throws him in the chair. His weak body screams in protest, but he can do nothing about it as the handcuffs click into place around his wrists and ankles.  
  
“Ten minutes. One person. Not a single hint of Leo’s existence.”  
  
He nods, locking away any memories of Leo deep in his mind, hiding him underneath layers and layers of his misery and homesickness, and replacing him with one of the soldiers in the room. If his father searched his memories, the soldier was now his escort and Tamlin’s second.  
  
Then he feels it. The stroke of familiar power against his mind. The weak wall he has managed around his mind crumbles, and tears well in his eyes as he feels his father’s loving presence flood his conscious.  
  
His father growls. _That’s an outrageous amount of faebane._  
  
_I know._  
  
_How has he been treating you?_  
  
Cirron doesn’t want to explain it. Instead he shows moments of the past week. The permanent shackles around his wrist. The taste of faebane in his food. The chains keeping him secured to the bed.  
  
He feels his father’s rage spike at the last image.  
  
_I’ll kill him._  
  
Those three words do send the gathered tears down his cheeks; the only care he’s received this week was from Matilde.  
  
_You can’t. The bargain._  
  
_He’s treating you like a prisoner. He’s not upholding his end of the agreement._ He can feel his father's power roiling, aching, burning to snatch him out of Spring and this horrible bargain.  
  
_Twenty-four more days._ He tries to convey his pain and determination.  
  
His father understands, as usual. His power, though still agitated, is reluctantly pulled back. _Twenty-four days,_ is the tense reply.  
  
Hearing his father’s voice soothes his weary soul. It immediately isn’t enough.  
  
_Can I…_ He swallows. _Is anyone else there?_  
  
It’s pushing the bargain, but—  
  
_Cirron, everyone’s here._  
  
Cirron is careful to keep his face unchanged, but he’s floored. By the Mother, he loves his family so much. He doesn’t know what to do.  
  
_Who do you want to talk to?_ His father's voice is gentle. Understanding.  
  
He had forgotten this was happening. He didn’t think in advance about who to talk to.  
  
He considers his sorry state. Then says, _Uncle Az._  
  
He feels his father’s approval. _Good choice._  
  
A moment passes. Then he feels a darker presence. Quiet. Lethal.  
  
_I’m sorry,_ he says before his uncle could get a word out.  
  
_What for?_ His uncle sounds confused. And a bit disturbed.  
  
_When I woke up on my first day here I panicked, and I didn’t apply anything you taught me—_  
  
_It’s alright._ He’s quick to interrupt. _Don’t worry about that._  
  
_You would’ve reacted appropriately._  
  
_I’m centuries older than you. You’re still young. Of course you’d panic when you wake up in a completely different environment. Considering your,_ anger floods the mental link, _living conditions, you’ve remembered everything else I’ve taught you._  
  
Right. Staying calm in unnerving situations.  
  
_I guess._  
  
_I’m proud of you._  
  
Cirron allows himself to smile, still very aware of the crowded room.  
  
_I miss everyone.  
  
And everyone misses you. Especially your cousins. _  
  
His heart breaks. _How are they taking it?  
  
The twins are… restless. Yazmine is holding them together as best as she can. _  
  
He immediately feels for her. She’s reclusive by nature, and it’s always been difficult for her to get between the two’s quarrels. Quarrels that must have increased tenfold with his absence.  
  
_Tell her as soon as I’m back she can disappear for a few days. And I’ll buy her whatever she wants._  
  
Amusement rumbles down the link. _She expects no less.  
  
And tell the twins I’ll allow them both to pummel me when I return._  
  
He thinks of how confused they must be, how angry they must have been when his parents returned without him. He’s willing to bet that the house is chaotic; though they usually get along with each other, their arguments are ugly and, quite frankly, terrifying. He’s normally the one to dispel them using both words of reason and his outrageous power. Without him…  
  
_Though they’d enjoy that, I’m not confident you’d be able to handle it in your state._  
  
He grimaces. He hasn’t let himself think about the long-term effect all this faebane would have on his power. If… if his power would return at all.  
  
The possibility makes him queasy. He shoves it out of his mind, his too-warm hands gripping the arm rests.  
  
_Addison says that if you’re chained you may as well make sure the cuffs leave scars. She believes they would look cool. Kaede agrees._  
  
The reaction is so utterly characteristic of his cousins that his heart aches. _I don’t have much of a choice._  
  
Anger sparks in the link again. _No you don’t, do you?_  
  
His reply is quiet. _I’ve figured out the range of motion that I have._ Uncle Az is silent, so he continues. _I’ve learned which sleeping position is best to sleep in while chained. I’ve gotten used to the sound of rattling metal in my ears._  
  
_All of which are things you never needed to know,_ his uncle finally replies with a carefully measured voice. The anger still writhes in the bond, though his voice is calm as he says, _You are very brave for doing this, Cirron.  
  
I’m starting to feel less brave and more an idiot.  
  
The line between the two is often hard to find._  
  
Tamlin growls, “Five minutes.”  
  
Despite himself, Cirron starts to panic. No. He doesn’t want to leave his family. He doesn’t want to go back to facing this prison alone.  
  
_It’s going to be okay,_ his uncle says. _Have you been sketching?_  
  
An offer to change the subject to something lighter. He quickly accepts.  
  
_It’s been the only thing helping the days pass quicker._ He sends images of his work.  
  
The link is quiet for a few moments, then, _Impressive as usual._  
  
_Thank you,_ he preens. He hasn’t shown them to anyone until now, and he is quite proud of them.  
  
_Though, Cass is a bit uglier than how you depicted him._  
  
He snorts. The action shocks him, and he realizes he can’t remember the last time he laughed.  
  
_Do you have anyone you can talk to?  
  
No._ He immediately grimaces at his quick answer. Idiot.  
  
_Cirron?  
  
Well there’s this really nice older woman who’s taking care of me.  
  
Oh?  
  
Her name is Matilde. When we’re alone she unshackles my cuffs. _  
  
A marginal bit of tension leaves the bond. _That’s good of her.  
  
She's the only one who’s shown me any kindness.  
  
We’ll have to thank her when we pick you up._  
  
When they pick him up. He lets that sentence ground him. This isn’t forever.  
  
_Who’s going to come get me?_  
  
His uncle sounds amused. _The better question is, who’s not going to come get you._  
  
Yes, he loves his family.  
  
_What happened when Mother and Father came back without me?_ He’s been wondering about that.  
  
_Feyre and Rhys were furious. They told us you were gone, and we were all in the river-house almost immediately. Every one of us wanted to bring you back right then and there._  
  
And with the amount of power coursing through their veins…  
  
_I’m impressed you all managed to uphold the bargain._  
  
Wry amusement travels down the link. _As am I.  
  
Everything’s been normal since I left? _  
  
Uncle Az is quiet, then, _It’s been…. tense. Addison and Kaede nearly kill each other while sparring. Yazmine is far more reserved than usual. Your parents…_  
  
The silence immediately unnerves him. _What?  
  
They are helping each other cope. And looking forward to the second the bargain is up._  
  
The answer is vague enough that he half-heartedly jokes, _I hope they’re planning a dramatic entrance.  
  
I have no doubt about it.  
  
Do you have any advice? To get through this next week?_  
  
Uncle Az hums. _You won’t like it._  
  
Oh dear. _Then I should hear it.  
  
Stop sketching.  
  
_Shock ripples through his very being. He swears he hears his heart break._ No.  
  
Cirron—  
  
I can’t—  
  
Listen to me. _His uncle’s voice is firm. Still understanding, but firm._ I know it’s been a lifeline for you. Like a familiar part of your life to cling to while surrounded by everything different and strange.  
  
_The words barely register through the rising panic. He’d have to go… without…_  
  
Breathe, Cirron.  
  
_He can’t.  
  
He wouldn’t survive. The panicked haze sharpens into anger. How would_ he _feel—_  
  
I do understand Cirron, but you need to breathe.  
  
_Dark spots interrupt his vision, and he takes in a breath he didn’t realize he needed. After a few more inhales, they disappear._  
  
Good. Now listen.  
  
_He glares at the door in front of him. The soldiers flanking them don’t react._  
  
It will be difficult. But you’re not helping yourself by thinking about home all day. It’s only making your stay there more miserable.  
  
_He doesn’t reply._  
  
I know you’re angry. But if you don’t take care of yourself, then who will?  
  
_They certainly weren’t there to. He turns it over in his mind; no sketching. He’s never not been able to do what he enjoys most. How would he—_  
  
Go on walks. _Uncle Az interrupts before he can finish the thought._ Wherever you’re allowed. Visit the kitchens and be friendly with the cooks; perhaps they’ll cut back on the faebane if they see for themselves who they’re poisoning. Find a library. Do some exercises. Meet someone new.  
  
_Despite his stubborn anger, Cirron finds himself relaxing into the idea the longer his uncle speaks. All those suggestions are doable. He vaguely remembers being shown a study during his quick tour._  
  
It’s easier to just… be in the gallery. _And ignore the fact that he’s in spring as much as possible._  
  
I’m sure it is. _Uncle Az’s voice turns soothing._ Just do the best you can to move around more. Only go back to the gallery when you feel as if it is not your sole support.  
  
Will I ever feel secure without it? _It seems like a strange question to ask. But here, in this strange situation, he’s just glad that he’s speaking to someone who knows him, and well at that. He’s willing to ask anything._  
  
If you try.  
  
_Behind him, Tamlin shifts on his feet. It must be nearing ten minutes._  
  
Time’s almost up, _he says quietly._  
  
You’ll be okay, Cirron. You’re already a week down.  
  
It was a miserable week.  
  
Take my suggestions and next week will be better. I promise.  
  
I’ll do my best, _he says, and he means it. Pride flickers down the bond, and not just Uncle Az’s._ Any last advice?  
  
Don’t let him see you down. No matter what he does to you, or how many chains he binds you with, or whatever insults he spits, don’t let it break you. It’s okay to feel low— it’s unavoidable. But don’t let them see it.  
  
_The words sound nice, they really do but…_  
  
I’m so tired.  
  
I know, Cirron. _His uncle sounds pained._ I know.  
  
_“Time.” Cirron’s heart jumps as a soldier strides toward the chair.  
  
Twenty-four more days.  
  
The soldier pinches a nerve in his neck and he sags, darkness claiming him. __

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, it's finally here... I had planned to have this up a lot sooner; thank you sm for your patience :) and formatting this was a nightmare, so if anyone has tips, that'd be fantastic.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Please comment, it'd make my day :)


	6. Chapter 6

Cirron ambles down the hall, steps echoing against the marble floors and handcuffs clinking against his legs. He passes many lesser faeries as he goes. None of them meet his gaze. A part of him wishes they would, so that he could have _someone_ to talk to.  
  
He’s not used to… this. Having no responsibilities or social life. Normally he’s attending meetings and dinners with his parents, or training with his uncles, or running around with his cousins, or doing _something._  
  
In his own time, he tucks himself away in his personal studio; his haven. It’s a fairly large room, connected to his bedroom for easy access. A long table, splattered with ink, marker, and paint, takes up the center of the room, usually covered in different projects and supplies. Four wooden stools, adorned with cushions courtesy of Aunt Mor, are set around the large table. There’s a, much smaller, draft table facing the left wall of windows looking out to Velaris.  
  
And the wall opposite it is… a mess. At the center of the wall, the dark shelves spill over with posters, projects, and books. To the right of the line of shelves is a walk-in closet _brimming_ with supplies; his mother made a point to make sure he has everything he needs, and it shows. On the left is a sink with cabinets; a sink that is stained in various colors from use. Though when Father offered to replace it, he was appalled.  
  
And on the back wall… a sitting area for anyone visiting him to be comfortable. His mother helped him decorate it. The white walls are dressed with pieces created by his family, some crude and others beautifully detailed. The ebony wood floor of the studio is covered with a small, cream area rug. The dark furniture is accented with violet and gold patterned pillows.  
  
He’d been working on several projects before the meeting that started all of this.  
  
Just thinking about his favorite room brings a fresh wave of homesickness, which he quickly shoves down. No use thinking about it.  
  
He continues passing servants, no purpose in this walk except to get out of the gallery. His uncle is, unfortunately, right; drawing his life did him no good except wallowing in self pity. The more he does, the quicker the time will pass, the faster he gets home.  
  
It makes sense.  
  
His fae ears pick up faint grunting. Then the familiar clash of weapons. He immediately recognizes the sound: the training hall. His steps quicken, following the noise before pausing. He looks down at his thinning arms and legs. He’d probably… embarrass himself going in there with well-muscled fae soldiers. Not to mention it was one of the many places he wasn’t allowed in.  
  
But it’s been over a week since he’d last properly trained. His very bones are itching for it, no matter how out of shape he is.  
  
He gathers his composure— his nonchalance, his general disdain, his slow gait— and continues toward the training hall.  
  
He reaches the large entryway, oak double-doors wide open, and peers in. The space is huge, extending wide and far. The walls have huge windows, all of which are open and sunlight pours through. The ground is of dirt and compact gravel, and instead of a back wall, there’s… nothing. It opens up into an expanse of bright green, rippling grass, which travels past the barracks, into woods and beyond. He assumes there must be wards to keep the insects and woodland creatures from getting in.  
  
Sentries, in pairs and triples, are set in different areas of the room, sparring. Metal slams against metal, and a cool breeze flows through the space, lightening the musk of sweat and body odor.  
  
His eye catches on a familiar shock of blonde hair near the exit. Leo.  
  
The heir of Spring is taking on two sentries at once. His form is _impeccable._ Cirron can’t help but watch as he ducks, weaves, blocks… He’s a blur, attacks landing with strength and precision that even Uncle Cass would nod at.  
  
Soon, with a quick maneuver, the raven-haired sentry is on his back. The second sentry barely spares her downed ally a glance, lunging at Leo. Even this far, he sees the _grin_ on Leo’s face as he blocks the barrage of vicious attacks. They move lightning quick, and Cirron is well aware that he’s shamelessly watching.  
  
The sentry, with her long chestnut braid whipping behind her, lasts impressively long. Then Leo manages to knock her off balance and, seizing the other’s second of vulnerability, sends her to the floor.  
  
Leo shakes out his arms, rolling his neck. Then he looks right at Cirron.  
  
Cirron coolly gazes back.  
  
He watches as Leo helps the chestnut-haired sentry on her feet. He mutters something Cirron can’t hear. She nods and turns to the other sentry, who seems fairly content on the floor.  
  
Then Leo marches over, and Cirron doesn’t lower his gaze as he comes closer and closer. His curls are limp with sweat and his shirt is soaked through.  
  
As soon as he’s close enough, Leo grips the shackle of his cuffs and yanks him down the hall.  
  
“Hey!”  
  
“I left you in the gallery. You’re not supposed to be here.”  
  
It’d taken him hours to get himself to leave. He’s not going back. Cirron growls and plants his feet. To his satisfaction, Leo stumbles before righting himself. “I’m not going back to the gallery.”  
  
Leo’s eyes, so expressive, are dark. “Funny, you seemed content enough with wasting away in there for the extent of your stay.”  
  
He doesn’t need to explain himself to him. Instead he says, “I’m bored.”  
  
“Then sketch.”  
  
“That’s all I’ve been doing.”  
  
“Well keep doing it.”  
  
“I don’t want to.” A lie. There’s nothing else he’d rather be doing more.  
  
“Well what do you want?”  
  
“Take me outside.”  
  
Leo raises an eyebrow. “Outside? You?”  
  
Cirron rolls his eyes. “Just because I’m of the Night Court, doesn’t mean I hate the sunshine.”  
  
“You just... don’t seem like an ‘outside’ type of male.”  
  
Cirron scoffs. “You know nothing about me.”  
  
“That’s not my fault.”  
  
They glare at each other, intense hickory eyes boring into his own blue-gray ones.  
  
Leo rests his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I’m training right now. Go bother someone else.”  
  
An idea pops in his head. He smirks. Leo immediately looks wary.  
  
“Well I suppose I could go off on my own.” His grin grows. “By myself. While my _escort_ shirks his responsibilities. It’s no trouble. Apologies for _interrupting your schedule_." Then he steps around a dumbstruck Leo and strolls down the hall.  
  
Waiting.  
  
He doesn’t have to wait long.  
  
“Stop.”  
  
He obliges, turning around with a raised eyebrow. “Hm?”  
  
It takes everything in him to not laugh at Leo’s tortured expression. “You can… watch us… spar.”  
  
Every word seems to pain Leo. Cirron revels in it. Having the most fun since he got here, he says, “Oh I _couldn’t._ It’d be rude of me to interrupt. After all, I shouldn’t be in there in the first place.”  
  
Leo glares at him. His returning smile is downright feline.  
  
Then the glare shifts to a scowl as Leo looks away. “Either join us or I show you the gardens.”  
  
Success. Oh how he _missed_ antagonizing people.  
  
He makes a show of picking an option. Either be polite and stay with Leo where he needs to be, or drag him away for an undesired walk.  
  
The pondering expression he's placed on his face is only half for show.  
  
He very nearly chooses to drag him away. But then he remembers the concern in Leo’s eyes when he’d nearly passed out after dinner last week. How he’d been ready to catch him. And despite him being… rough around the edges, he’s been genuine. And now that he thinks about it, the heir hasn’t said anything too insulting to warrant Cirron’s hostility.  
  
So he looks back at Leo and says, “I suppose I could overlook my convictions and stay in the training grounds.”  
  
Leo's eyes widened in surprise. Then he nods and motions for him to follow him back.  
  
They walk through the entrance, Cirron trailing behind him. Several soldiers stare at him as he goes. He wonders if they know who he is. If they know what their High Lord has done. Judging by their surprised expressions, they weren’t informed of it.  
  
They walk toward where Leo was before. The cool breeze kisses his face and ruffles his hair, and he allows himself a small smile. The two sentries from before are waiting. The raven-haired one has an easy smile on his face, escaped tendrils falling from his bound hair and waving in the passing breeze. Now closer, he can see the smile lines under gray eyes, the sharp color eased by their warmth.  
  
The shorter female does not look as welcoming. Her arms are crossed, emphasizing years of hard work and training, and her emerald green eyes are bright and analyzing, assessing… something. He doesn’t know.  
  
The raven haired male speaks first. “So you’re the prisoner Vanni complains about night and day.”  
  
Cirron blinks.  
  
“Taj,” Leo growls.  
  
Vanni? Is Leo not his only name? He talks about him? Who are these fae?  
  
Head spinning, he replies, “I suppose I am. You’ve heard of me?”  
  
Taj chuckles, opening his mouth to speak before Leo growls at him in warning. He raises an eyebrow back. And continues talking. Cirron thinks he likes this male.  
  
“According to Vanni, you’re the heir of the Night Court.” His voice isn’t as deep as Leo’s, but it’s smooth and rich. Soothing.  
  
“Right again.”  
  
Taj offers a hand, and Cirron looks at his own cuffed ones. Then with a crooked smile he offers both. Taj laughs and shakes one. A quick glance at Leo reveals the exasperation in his eyes. But there’s also something else; it’s the same glimmer that he knows is in his own eyes when around his cousins.  
  
Taj gestures to the female next to him, who was watching their interaction with rapt attention. “And this grump is Jodi. Believe it or not, she’s actually pretty nice.”  
  
Jodi doesn’t offer a hand. Instead she says, “You leave soon, correct?”  
  
Cirron’s smile fades. “Not soon enough.”  
  
She nods, not saying anything further. He’s reminded of Aunt Nesta; the rigid posture, the concise sentences, the initial cold demeanor to anyone new.  
  
He can handle it.  
  
“So, what’s your name?” Taj asks. At his puzzled look, Taj shrugs his shoulders. “We don’t get out much.”  
  
Jodi smiles, though faint.  
  
“Cirron,” he replies.  
  
Leo finally speaks. “He’ll be watching us. Since he apparently has nothing else to do.”  
  
Cirron doesn’t miss the snippy tone. Taj apparently doesn’t either, seeing as he grips Leo’s shoulder. “Relax. I know this is strange.” He doesn’t mean the sparring. “But roll with it. You’ve been doing fine.”  
  
Leo takes a deep breath and sighs, nodding. Taj grins, a flash of white, and his gray eyes gleam in the sunlight pouring through the nearest window. He bounces on his toes, palming his sword. “Enough talk. Maybe this time I’ll be knocked unconscious.”  
  
“It’s the only way we can get him to shut up,” Jodi remarks as she palms her own sword. Cirron smiles.  
  
“Go wait over there, against the wall.” Leo gestures to an area near them. Watching them handle their swords only strengthens his yearning to spar. To fight. To feel the blade cutting through the air and the vibration in his fingertips as it lands exactly where he intends it.  
  
But he pushes it down and strolls to the wall. He feels Jodi staring at him. By the time he turns around and sits against the wall, however, her gaze is focused on the others. He watches them as they spar. Intrigued. These must be Leo’s... friends. The thought never occurred to him that Leo might have friends. And by the way they banter and tease each other, they’re close.  
  
Taj… isn’t the greatest at sparring. But Cirron gives him credit for trying his best. And every time he’s knocked down, he takes it with ease.  
  
An admirable trait to have.  
  
Jodi on the other hand is quick. Brutal. Every time her and Leo meet, the resounding clash rings in his ears and in his own hands. There’s a confident grace to her that he can’t help but mark as she smoothly dodges Leo’s attacks.  
  
As time goes on, however, neither of them manage to successfully knock Leo down. Jodi gets close several times but, to her clear aggravation, Leo manages to succeed. Cirron thinks he could hold his own against him. But he doesn’t bring it up; Leo’s already on edge with him just being here.  
  
For another day, then.  
  
He calmly continues watching, thoroughly enjoying the breeze and cool temperature of the room. The sunlight warms his achy bones, and he finds himself… relaxing. It’s fantastic.  
  
About an hour later, he’s already dozed off multiple times. No one bothers him; they keep to themselves and their groups.  
  
Then Taj limps over, sword sheathed. When he reaches the wall he slams against it and slides down next to Cirron with a groan.  
  
Cirron chuckles, “Well that’s a little dramatic.”  
  
Taj makes an incredulous noise. “Have you _seen_ him fight?”  
  
Cirron nods, busy watching Leo and Jodi go at it. It’s like a dance, in a way. Jodi spins and dives with flawless grace, sword singing through the air. Leo, feet planted firmly in the dirt, takes every vicious hit with ease and steady strength. “He’s a fantastic swordsman.”  
  
He feels Taj’s curious gaze on him but opts not to meet it, instead picking apart Leo’s fighting style and comparing it with his own. He imagines that it would be similar to sparring with Kaede.  
  
“You say that, but the lack of reverence in your voice tells me otherwise.”  
  
This time he does turn to look at Taj. He can practically see the gears turning in the male’s head as he sizes him up. Cirron only offers a secretive smile.  
  
Taj settles back against the wall as he announces, “We should spar.”  
  
Cirron uncrosses his legs. “Tell that to your friend.”  
  
He feels Taj stiffen. Then, “He’s not that bad.” Though they’d just met, the seriousness of his tone startles him.  
  
“Forgive me, but he hasn’t shown much kindness besides leaving me in the gallery and reappearing for dinner.”  
  
“According to him you enjoy being there. And believe it or not, he feels bad dragging you away every day.”  
  
Cirron blinks, head snapping toward Taj. “What?”  
  
Leo’s steady rhythm falters.  
  
Taj’s gray eyes are calm. “He’d figured that by staying in the gallery, you both get what you want. Space.”  
  
“Taj,” Leo growls.  
  
The friendly male only smiles at him, showing no remorse.  
  
Cirron turns this new information over in his mind. He’d thought he’d been dropped off to avoid being a burden. Leo… cares?  
  
It’s Jodi who breaks the silence, pulling away from Leo. “Why don’t you take a break?” Even from here he can see the demand in her eyes.  
  
When Leo shakes his head, she raises an eyebrow. And that is apparently all it takes for Leo to obey her.  
  
Impressive. He’ll have to get to know her better.  
  
Taj nudges his shoulder in farewell, before heaving himself up off the ground and unsheathing his sword. Leo takes his place against the wall, though a bit farther than where Taj previously was.  
  
Cirron keeps his gaze forward. Leo is unnaturally still next to him. As the seconds tick by, his skin crawls at the awkward silence. But he doesn’t know what to say.  
  
Then Taj seems to have something in his throat. Something large, if all those hacking coughs are anything to go by.  
  
Jodi apparently has the same problem, clearing her throat. Loudly. Repeatedly.  
  
Cirron does everything in his power to contain his laughter, especially as Leo only tenses more.  
  
When Taj is beet red and _glaring_ at Leo, Leo leans his head back against the wall and says, “It’s true.”  
  
The coughing miraculously ceases. Cirron looks at him, assessing. Leo is staring at the high ceiling, and there’s nothing but honesty in his eyes as he continues.  
  
“I… Father…” He blinks hard, visibly collecting his thoughts. Cirron waits. “He told me his plan, and I… wasn’t okay with it. Even if you weren’t heir to the Night Court, I don’t want anyone to… waste away in my home. I thought… being in the gallery made you happy. So I left you there all day.”  
  
Leo truly thought he was helping him feel comfortable. It seems he’d been right about the other’s sincerity.  
  
Cirron sighs, and in a rare moment of candor he replies, “I appreciate that.” He aimlessly plays with the shackle of his cuffs. “But I need to take a break. From sketching. For my own good.”  
  
Leo turns to look at him. When Cirron meets his eyes, they’re indecisive. Worried. And maybe just a hint of… fear. When Cirron tilts his head in silent question, Leo says, “It wasn’t my idea to ban you from most of the manor.”  
  
Ah.  
  
Cirron quirks the corner of his mouth. “We’ll just have to be careful then, won’t we?”  
  
Leo’s murky eyes clear at the challenge. He smiles, and Cirron realizes at that moment that they’re being civil toward each other.  
  
“I guess we will.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to comment! :)
> 
> Mild edit - 9/2/20, took out a sentence that I didn’t like


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch. 7's finally here! hope you enjoy!
> 
> Also, I don't want to lead on any of you who are hoping for a romantic relationship between Cirron and Leo... I'm keeping them friends. Having them be together isn't what I envisioned for them, so it won't be canon in my story. Sorry for disappointing anyone :/ but they will be close :)

A hyacinth-scented breeze flows through the open window of the dining hall. The early morning sun bathes the wood floor in warm light and gilds their utensils and plates. Birds chirp merrily, incessantly, providing a background noise for the forever-tense meal time.  
  
As he cuts his tainted seasoned potatoes, he can’t help but notice the pale color of his hands. Their slight tremble. No matter how much he tries to steady them, steady himself, they twitch.  
  
Leo glances at them occasionally. Tamlin does a fantastic job at ignoring it.  
  
When Tamlin _does_ say something, it’s directed toward Leo. “You will be joining me in a meeting today.”  
  
Leo's brow furrows. “With who?”  
  
Tamlin glances at Cirron, but still replies. “Finance director.”  
  
At Leo’s lack of surprise or fear, he assumes that he’s been in these types of meetings before. Which means that he’s been in town and the officials know him. Which also means that the people know that they have an heir.  
  
So he’s not trapped in the manor. Good to know.  
  
Leo nods to his father. And that’s that.  
  
Cirron’s been… wondering about the type of relationship they have. All he’s seen between the two is strict business; no jokes, no warmth. Yes, Tamlin did threaten him to keep his existence secret, but it was more for the security of their court. And the fact that he opted to keep his child, so hard to come by as fae, a _secret_ , speaks volumes.  
  
Are they truly related?  
  
He glances at them. Definitely related.  
  
And how does his mother feel about all this? Is she still alive? Were her and Tamlin happy together?  
  
It’s all wholly different from the family dynamic he’s used to. How does Leo survive like this?  
  
After breakfast is over and all his multiplying questions remain unanswered, Tamlin rises first. “Meeting starts in half an hour,” he informs Leo before exiting.  
  
No sooner does he leave, Leo quietly asks, “When did it start?”  
  
Cirron leans back in his seat. “This morning.”  
  
“The faebane?”  
  
“Among other things.”  
  
Leo finally looks up at him. He continues. “Lack of food, overdose probably, my power being contained for too long...” He trails off.  
  
Leo sighs. “The chefs were given very strict instructions on your meals. I don’t think I’d be able to convince them otherwise.”  
  
He plays with the shackle of his cuffs. Now a mindless habit. “Maybe I’ll stumble upon the kitchen today.”  
  
A faint smile from Leo. Then he stands. “I need to get ready.”  
  
Cirron obediently stands as well, and they walk toward the door. Leo drops him off at the gallery, nodding at him before setting off for his room no doubt.  
  
He stares at the grand doors, the pull to enter just as real as yesterday. To sit at his desk and lose himself in the creative fervor the gallery provides for him. To page through his sketches of his family. To find his home away from home.  
  
Before he knows it his hand is on the elegant handle. Gripping the curve of gold under his palm. The cold metal only further reminds him how unnaturally warm his hands are without his power, the constant writhing thing under his skin.  
  
The bitter reminder has him opening the door, despite the guilt. He peers into the space, and his heart melts all over again.  
  
He shouldn’t. He promised.  
  
He takes a step over. Then the next.  
  
He deserves it. After all, he was out of the gallery nearly all day yesterday. He should treat himself.  
  
So he closes the door behind him, pushing away the tug against it, and walks to each painting. One by one, he looks at them from close up and from afar. He admires the brush strokes, the conscious decisions the artist made to convey their point. Compares it to what he would decide for his own work. He continues until he’s gone through each one. Then he steps back, looking over each one. They’re all so unique; some are dark and painful, others convey childlike joy, some are realistic, others are abstract. There is no one theme running through the entire gallery.  
  
He looks down at his chains. The indigo-blue cuffs around his wrists, sunlight gilding the metal and bringing out the inconsistencies in the deep color. He can’t help but notice how terribly it clashes with the green of his tunic sleeves. The handcuffs are warm— whether from constant use or from being on his wrists for so long, he doesn’t know. He turns his wrists back and forth, and the chain quietly rattles at the motion. His warm hands still shake, faintly, the barest tremors running through his nerves. It’s small enough to ignore if he tries hard enough; as Tamlin did.  
  
His hands curl into fists. Why should he try? Whether he tries to be better or not, he’ll be leaving at the end of the month. It won’t matter if he stays in this gallery every hour of the day, or goes out to see the sun. A bargain’s a bargain. And Tamlin is doing everything in his power to make him miserable.  
  
…  
  
Wait. Isn’t that against the bargain?  
  
One month. Earned equal treatment. Weekly conversation.  
  
Earned equal treatment… he likes to think he’s been pretty civil with Tamlin. It’s not like he’s been running rampant and burning flowers or whatever. But he’s been treated exactly as he was the day he arrived; poisoned to the limit with faebane. Even Father thought so as well.  
  
Just as quickly as the anger came, it’s gone with a defeated sigh. It’s not like he can do anything in these chains; with the faebane taking the very life out of him. He can only do his best to handle the abuse until he can leave.  
  
And he’d very much like to handle it in the way he enjoys most.  
  
So he strides to the desk in the corner and reaches for his sketchpad.  
  
  
——  
  
  
Leo finds him after his meeting. Drags him out of the gallery, to his shock.  
  
He’d been flipping through his sketches, memories running through his mind when Leo had knocked. Popped his head in the door. Strolled over and had the _audacity_ to swipe the sketchbook from his hands. Cirron could only blink, eyes wide as Leo pulled him out of his seat and out the door.  
  
Now they’re walking down the halls at a snail’s pace, silent. Awkwardly silent, again.  
  
Their steps echo on the black and white marble floors. Cirron stares at the tile.  
  
Leo clears his throat. “Sorry for… taking your sketchpad.”  
  
Cirron glances to his left. Leo is staring at the marble floor, as he was. He plays with the chain. “I’m glad you did.”  
  
It’s quiet again. The sketches run through his mind. His family.  
  
His heart sinks. This is the second day in a row he’s gone to the gallery. They had been so proud when he said he wouldn’t.  
  
“Have you… been sketching your family?”  
  
Cirron’s eyes widen and dart to Leo. “What?” It’s strange hearing someone ask about his family. Someone he barely knows.  
  
Leo looks at him, eyes curious. “Well… who else would it be? You work so hard on each one, staying in that seat for days on end… whoever they are must be close to you.” Something darkens in his eyes.  
  
Hm. Maybe he can get some answers from his earlier questions. And avoid revealing too much about those he cares for most.  
  
“My family and I are close.” He half-answers Leo’s question. “You and Tamlin are… different.”  
  
Leo chuckles, a dark thing, and Cirron tenses. He hasn’t heard that since he first arrived. “That’s one way of putting it.”  
  
It’s quiet again. Cirron… doesn’t know how to reply to that. Thankfully he doesn’t have to.  
  
“He’s glad to have an heir. And it’s even better that I'm a secret; he says it’s a good edge to have over the other courts. But I… don’t think that’s it.”  
  
He thinks Tamlin’s ashamed of him. And from what Cirron’s seen, he’s privy to agree.  
  
Instead of saying as much, he replies, “At least you have other family.” If there’s anything he’s learned from his family’s background, it’s that family is what you make it.  
  
Leo’s shoulders relax, and the dark look in his eyes fades. “I don’t know where I’d be without them. Taj and Jodi…” He tilts his head back, looking at the ceiling. As if looking at the past. “They saved me.”  
  
Cirron hums. He understands. His own cousins save him from his overwhelming power, every day.  
  
Or they used to. There may not be need for that any longer.  
  
They continue strolling down the hall, comfortably silent. He turns over the new information the other shared, Leo no doubt doing the same.  
  
“What’s… your relationship with your father like?”  
  
The thought of Father puts a grin on his face. “Special.” The only other one who understands the struggle of barely containable power; the need to spend it wherever he can. One of their favorite games is a mental one; sometimes he randomly attacks Father’s mental barrier, both as a release for his power and to catch his sharp father off guard. He never wins, but one day he will. Father normally attacks back. It’s fun. Sometimes they stay up all night together, working. Or talking; Father has great life advice. Mother is always exasperated when she sees them the next morning with mussed hair and bags under their eyes. Father always looks so proud of him; in his eyes, his mannerisms, the way he talks about him to anyone who will listen. “We have a lot of fun.”  
  
“I'm glad.” There’s only quiet sincerity in Leo's voice. If he’s jealous, he doesn’t show it.  
  
They continue, and Leo leads them around a corner, down the short hall and then a sharp left turn. Cirron nearly smacks face first into a set of double doors. He looks behind him. There’s less blinding sunlight here. A few paintings adorn the walls. And a mirror; he quickly looks away.  
  
Leo opens one of the large doors, meeting his gaze and tilting his head. Cirron walks in. His eyes widen.  
  
Books. He counts ten rows of them, five on each side, all the way to the back wall. Nowhere near the magnitude of the library under the House of Wind, but still. It’s a cozy library. And it looks lived in; as if it’s not a public part of the manor.  
  
The couches don’t match. Neither do the walls. In fact, the colors are all different from each other, enough to make him cringe a bit.  
  
“Is this… your space?” He asks carefully.  
  
Leo nods, closing the door behind him. “Father gifted it to me after a particularly rough fight.”  
  
Cirron doesn’t push further. Instead he starts to walk to the bookcases before pausing. “Can I look around?”  
  
Leo smiles and nods again. “I need to head to training. I just thought I’d offer you a different option from… walking aimlessly around the manor and struggling to avoid the gallery.”  
  
That was kind of him. But he’s putting a lot of trust in him, despite the fact they hardly know each other.  
  
Hm.  
  
So was his mother overly kind as well? Because he definitely didn’t get these manners from his father. Perhaps she had a hand in raising him.  
  
Instead of voicing his thoughts, he dips his head. “Thank you.”  
  
Leo starts turning toward the door. “All these books are mine. I’ve read every one.” He grins, brown eyes lighting up. “I’ll gladly argue with you about any of them.”  
  
_That_ sounds fun.  
  
He grins back. “Well I better get to work.”  
  
With that, Leo heads back to the door, waving before closing it behind him.  
  
And Cirron’s alone again.  
  
He sighs, a small smile on his face as he looks around the room. The dark blue walls; each wall a _slightly_ different shade, enough he knows it’ll begin to irk him in at most a few days. The white floating shelves. The random things on the wall; a sword, a necklace… leaves? The gaudy orange couches that burn his eyes; seriously, where did he find those?  
  
He wants to fix it all. Terribly.  
  
Maybe Leo will let him have a crack at it one day.  
  
He does his best to soothe the screaming artist in him and walks toward the shelves.  
  
They don’t seem to be organized in any way. All this… disorder surprises him. Leo always seemed so uptight, sword and boots polished to the nines.  
  
Yet again, there’s more to Leo than he thought.  
  
And as he randomly selects a book before heading for the horrific couches, he thinks maybe Leo wouldn’t be so terrible in the game of the courts as the other has led himself to believe. 


	8. Chapter 8

He spends the rest of the day in Leo’s library, curled in the corner of the hideous orange couch. The book he’d haphazardly selected actually turns out to be a halfway decent romance novel, one he doesn’t gag at.  
  
He’s always down for a good romance but some are too… cliche; when everything is too orchestrated and the only thing pouring out of the characters’ mouths are obnoxious one-liners.  
  
Though it borders on cliche, the plot is just captivating enough that he loses time as he turns page after page. As he gets invested in the story. As the female falls deeper and deeper in love with the _wrong male,_ why is she still going for him when he treats her like the dirt on his shoe? Who cares that they’re mates? He couldn’t care less for her! And now look, he’s gone, and she’s all by herself in the pouring rain, and she’s crying and _why_ is he so invested in this story? She falls to her knees, clothes plastered to her trembling body as she wracks with tears—  
  
A hand settles on his shoulder and he jolts, book flying out his hands and into Leo’s face.  
  
“Agh!”  
  
“Oh! Sorry!”  
  
Leo rubs his forehead, groaning but there’s a smile on his face. “Good book?”  
  
Cirron takes a deep breath. Does his best to calm his racing heart. “Not at all.”  
  
The other reaches down and picks up the offending object, turning it face-side up. “Oh, this gem.”  
  
_All I Ever Need_ is written in laughably extravagant script, followed by the author’s name.  
  
Leo continues. “I found it on the ground in the city. It was all dusty, but wasn’t in too bad shape so I kept it and read it when I got back.”  
  
In the city?  
  
Deciding to take his chances, he asks, “There’s a city?”  
  
Leo hums his confirmation, thumbing through the pages and occasionally wrinkling his nose.  
  
He thinks of _his_ city. Velaris. “What’s it like?”  
  
Leo looks down at him, eyebrow raised. “I can’t tell you. But… it’s nice. The people are lovely.”  
  
Right. Security reasons. There go his hopes of visiting.  
  
He looks to the window, and is met with orange hues dancing along the light wood floors. He’s gotten rather good at guessing when dinner is, judging by the positioning of the sun. It’s a lot earlier than dinner back home.  
  
“Taj missed you today.”  
  
He furrows his brow, looking at Leo again. Amusement sparks in the blonde’s eyes. “I only met him yesterday.”  
  
“He says it was nice having someone to sit with while gasping for breath.”  
  
Cirron laughs as he remembers Taj’s dramatics yesterday. Leo’s grin widens. “Well maybe I’ll stop by tomorrow.”  
  
“I think he’d like that a lot.” Leo snaps the book shut. “And this book is just as bad as I remember it.”  
  
Cirron scoots toward the edge of the seat, wiggling until he’s standing. “Another awkward meal.”  
  
All amusement fades from the other, and he slouches the slightest bit before correcting himself. “I don’t think they’ll get any better.”  
  
“Well let’s get it out of the way as fast as possible, shall we?”  
  
  
——  
  
  
After dinner, Leo escorts him to his room. It’s initially quiet.  
  
“Can I ask a question?”  
  
Leo nods, keeping his gaze in front of him.  
  
“How old are you?”  
  
Leo sighs in relief, and Cirron furrows his brow as he looks at him. “I thought you were going to ask something personal.”  
  
Hm. “Would you have answered?” Perhaps a missed opportunity.  
  
Leo smiles again, and he’s quickly learning how easy it is for the other to find humor in little things. It’s… refreshing.  
  
“Depends on what it was. As for my age…” he trails off, grinning. “Guess.”  
  
Guess? Fine.  
  
“Three hundred.” He says it with as much seriousness as he can muster, and the look on Leo’s face is worth it.  
  
Nothing but horror.  
  
He bites his cheek before a snort escapes him, and Leo huffs. “Very funny.”  
  
“You believed me,” he snickers.  
  
Leo looks away. “Yes, well you have a very impressive poker face. I didn’t know you could smile until yesterday.”  
  
Cirron only shrugs. He’ll take the compliment.  
  
It’s quiet again.  
  
“To answer your question… eighty.”  
  
He suddenly regrets asking.  
  
He does his best to act very normal. “Interesting.”  
  
Silence.  
  
“What, are you younger?”  
  
“I don’t think it matters—”  
  
“You _are.”_ There’s nothing but delight on Leo’s face, and he sighs, resigned to his fate. The teasing of his _dear_ older cousins following him even here. But Leo only says, “I definitely thought you were older.”  
  
“Really?” He hesitantly looks over.  
  
Leo eyes him, analyzing. He does his best to look unruffled. Then the other says, “You have a… mature air about you. You seem older.”  
  
Oh. Considering he really only hangs around his family, hearing that is a nice change.  
  
They reach his door. As he grips the golden handle, identical to the handle of the gallery, Leo says, “See you tomorrow.”  
  
He nods as he walks through the door and closes it behind him.  
  
Matilde is straightening out his neat bed, though she immediately comes toward him as he walks in. The faelights are already dim, and he welcomes the effect it has on him; it tells his body that he’s allowed to sleep, to succumb to the constant tug of exhaustion he’s firmly ignored all day. She unshackles his cuffs, before nudging him off to clean up. Once in the bathroom, he stretches out his forearms, then his arms, then his whole body because he can. Several bones crack and pop in the most satisfying way possible, and he only releases his stretches when they start to burn. Then, feeling wonderfully loose, he turns on the shower.  
  
After he’s clean he dries off and slips into the sleep clothes left for him on the counter. They’re wonderfully dark; the soft pants are obsidian and his short-sleeve shirt is only slightly lighter. Matilde found them from… somewhere. He didn’t ask, but when they appeared he thought he could cry from the utter lack of green or brown.  
  
She’s waiting on the side of the bed when he reemerges. He strolls over and gets as comfortable as he can before holding out his wrists. As she reshackles his chains, she says, “You look better, today.”  
  
He feels better. Talking to someone his age has been nice, after a week of keeping to himself. “Leo is good company.”  
  
Matilde hums. “He’s a good kid. It’s a shame how his father treats him.”  
  
That he agrees with. Matilde reaches down and cards her small fingers in his hair, and his head dips. _This_ has also become a part of his nightly routine, no matter that by some he’d be considered too old for coddling.  
  
“It’s strange going to sleep so early.”  
  
Her thumb brushes his cheek before returning to his hair. “It must be. I’ve never been to the Night Court, but I can only imagine how beautiful it is once the sun goes down.”  
  
He grins. “It is.” Billions of stars lighting up the sky, the bright moon, the wisps of clouds that swirl and break as him and his cousins soar at breakneck speeds, deep purples and navy blues and dark blues; he’s painted it all countless times from his studio, and each time it comes out different. And he’ll paint it many more.  
  
“You’ve been sleeping well.”  
  
And that’s true as well. Though his schedule is much lighter, enough that it _would_ throw off his sleep schedule, the faebane takes care of any extra energy he may have. Nowadays he easily falls asleep right after dinner.  
  
He only nods as that very fatigue settles in deeper. Matilde goes quiet after that, and only when he’s on the verge of slumber does she pull her hand away and bunch the covers against his chin. The last thing he remembers is a gentle thumb on his forehead before he’s out.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smaller chapter, i know
> 
> And for comparison, Cirron would be 17/almost 18, and Leo would be 19. So only a bit younger
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


	9. Chapter 9

After breakfast the next morning, Leo escorts him to the gallery. And walks right past it, leading him toward the training hall instead. Where he will now be spending a decent amount of his time.  
  
A side of Cirron he hasn’t exercised in awhile, even back home, awakens: the excitement and thrill of officially breaking the rules. And judging by the similar look on Leo’s face, he feels the same way.  
  
“Remember, stay by the weapons area, okay? If he comes, I’ll put a glamour on you.”  
  
Right. “And he won’t be able to see through it, right?” Father is more in tuned with his power, because they share the same ability. It might be the same case here.  
  
Leo shakes his head. “A glamour is different. Since its very nature is to hide and blend in, even Father shouldn’t be able to detect it, since it’s my own power.”  
  
He supposes that makes sense. And with such power… “I bet you got away with a lot when you were younger.”  
  
The grin on Leo’s face turns nostalgic. “I was insane. And I didn’t have a lot of control when I was younger so you can imagine how much of a handful I was. It ranged from a missing potted plant to a missing child.”  
  
Cirron chuckles. “When I was younger my power would manifest itself in whatever way it wanted, no control. Fire, spears, arrows… it would choose anything lethal. Father put up permanent shields in the house to protect Mother’s interior design.”  
  
Leo turns to look at him. “You too?”  
  
The shock in his voice throws him. “What?”  
  
“You had to deal with too much power at a young age.”  
  
“Of course,” he smirks. “We’re heirs, Leo.”  
  
Leo brings a hand up to his hair, letting out a deep sigh. “Yes. But I never...” he trails off.  
  
Keeping in mind everything he’s learned about him so far, about how he’s stuck in Spring, he hesitantly finishes his sentence. “...You never let yourself think you weren’t alone?”  
  
Leo stares at him, eyes wide. “Yeah. Exactly. I-I mean… Father… I… I never gave myself the benefit of the doubt.”  
  
He turns the choppy sentence over in his mind. He felt alone in his incredible power, sharing it only with his Father who as far as he can tell doesn’t care much about him. And whenever he lost control…  
  
He shouldn’t assume anything. But he asks, “Was Tamlin strict with you growing up?”  
  
Leo opens and closes his mouth. Then shakes his head.  
  
Okay. He’ll leave it alone. The remainder of their walk is in silence. Though when they walk through the door, Leo stops in the middle of the entryway and clears his throat.  
  
Ah. Speech time. He adjusts his posture accordingly.  
  
“Attention.” Leo’s voice rings throughout the space, echoing and carried by the wind. Every sentry stills, giving their undivided attention to the Heir of Spring.  
  
Leo continues. “I’m sure you all noticed the male next me last time he was here.” He gestures to Cirron. “This is Cirron, Heir of the Night Court. He’s staying with us for a bit. And he’s not supposed to be in here.” Then Leo grins. “So do me a favor and play dumb if my Father ever enters these grounds. I take full responsibility.”  
  
He receives hollers and shouts of agreement, and Cirron allows himself a small smile. Seems Leo is close with them.  
  
“Spread the word. Now back to work.”  
  
And just like that, the environment is back to normal, light chattering starting up first before the metallic sound of clanging swords starts up as well. Leo leads them toward where Taj and Jodi are waiting, similar to how he first met them.  
  
Taj bows deep. “Your majesties.”  
  
“Stop it,” Leo grimaces, nudging his friend and the shorter male cackles.  
  
“Look at you, breaking the rules,” Taj continues. “It's been long overdue, so thank you Cirron.” He nods at him.  
  
Cirron shrugs. “Rules are strong suggestions. You don’t always have to follow them.”  
  
“ _Exactly—”_  
  
“It’s your _job_ to follow orders, Taj.” Jodi interrupts. “You signed up for this.”  
  
“Well yeah, but there are some things that could be changed. Like waking up at such an ungodly hour, patrolling for days on end when absolutely _nothing_ has happened since the the Second War—”  
  
“You never know.” Leo crosses his arms. “It’s good to be prepared. The Second War came out of nowhere, you’ve heard the stories.”  
  
“Yes, but Hybern’s truly gone now. Right Cirron? Your parents were there too.”  
  
He nods. “Frontlines.” And his aunts killed the King.  
  
Taj aims a hand at him. “Exactly. So there’s really no need to patrol.”  
  
“You’re just afraid of the creatures lurking,” Leo chuckles.  
  
“I am _not.”_  
  
Then a grin spreads on Jodi’s face, and she brings a hand to her hip. “Need I remind you of the time when the Bogge—”  
  
“No you _needn’t_ remind anyone of anything.”  
  
“I’d like to know,” Cirron grins.  
  
Taj’s sword whines as it's pulled out of its sheath, the metal gleaming in the sunlight. “No, we have to train. It’s our duty and pleasure as sentries.” Clearly it’s a mantra he’s heard many times before.  
  
Jodi rolls her eyes, but unsheathes her sword as well. “Of course.”  
  
Cirron shakes his head, turning away and heading to the wall.  
  
Then they’re off, two-on-one. They start off slow, warming up, keeping up light conversation until it all intensifies and he’s unable to keep track. Then he slouches against the wall and looks up at the light wood panels of the ceiling, etched with— he squints— the outlines of leaves, varying in size.  
  
Just as before, the light of the space, the brightness of the world just beyond that invisible barrier; it softens his tense muscles and gently pulls his eyes shut. Maybe next time he should bring a book. Or his—  
  
He shoves the thought away before it can form, less he breaks his promise.  
  
Instead he focuses on his breathing, on clearing his head. On being in the moment, rather than… speculating all the time. He’s got nothing else to do anyway.  
  
The three switch off taking a small break every half hour or so. Taj’s break consists of his ragged breathing and Cirron’s concerned glances. Jodi sits a bit further away on her break. But he learns that she’s older than Taj and cares for him as such, and has been doing so for decades. On Leo’s break, they talk about trivial things— how sliding through long hallways in socks was the best feeling in the world, how the urge to strangle dignitaries was on occasion nearly too great, how hiding from their attenders became an art when they were younger. By the end of the break, Leo looks quite happy.  
  
A while later a bell rings in the distance, clamoring and incessant and his eyes snap open. He hasn’t heard that before. But every sentry in the room stills, and a sharp whine sounds as swords are sheathed. Groups start toward the opening rather than the double doors, but Leo, Jodi and Taj walk against the flow of the crowd toward him.  
  
Leo sticks out a hand. “Lunch.”  
  
Ah. He’s never been around for lunch. He accepts Leo’s hand and is pulled up. “How does it work?”  
  
“We go to the mess hall out that way.” Taj jabs a thumb toward the opening. “You and Leo go the other way.”  
  
“They’re required to eat with the other sentries, unfortunately,” Leo clarifies. “I normally find food elsewhere. In the kitchens, or in the city, or—“ he pauses, before clearing his throat. “Never mind. We’ll grab food in the kitchens.”  
  
Cirron eyes him, and of course tries to fill in the blank because he’s his father’s son, but Taj speaks.  
  
“We’re on duty after lunch. So we’ll see you tomorrow.” He sticks out a hand to shake, and yet again Cirron offers both; he’s in a good mood. Taj picks the other hand this time with a grin. Then him and Jodi are off.  
  
Leo gestures to follow him, and they’re off as well.  
  
  
——  
  
  
They reach the archway of the kitchen. Cirron stops short.  
  
Both high and lesser fae bustle about the spacious kitchen, and the scents of different cooking food meld into one. Different counters are set up in rows going all the way back. A side door is open, letting in a breeze that does nothing for the heat in the room.  
  
But he can’t pull his gaze away from the crates. Lots of them. All labeled _FAEBANE._  
  
There’s way too much here for only one prisoner. The stacks of boxes are against a wall, as if they belong there.  
  
An open crate rests on one of the counters, lid propped next to it, and he watches the faerie scoop out purple powder and mix it into the bowl.  
  
He can’t pull his eyes away. This… this… he’s known he’s been poisoned but seeing it…  
  
A hand grips his arm. Pulls him away. But he stares until he’s out the kitchen and the crates are out of sight. His back hits the wall, and Leo’s in front of him, saying something. Cirron stares at him, but sees the stack of crates. The poison going into his food. The poison that’s been in his system for a week and a half.  
  
“I’m never getting my power back,” he whispers.  
  
Leo stares at him. But he continues. “It’s… gone, there’s no way it can come back after all of that.”  
  
He’ll never get to play with his magic again. With Father. With Mother. With siphon power of any kind. Leo is suddenly blurry in front of him, and his chest tightens to the point of pain. He brings his hands up to wipe the gathering tears.  
  
“Hey.” The grip around his arm tightens, but he doesn’t look at him. And suddenly he’s rethinking why he’s been so friendly with the son of his captor. The one who’s allowed him to be poisoned to such an extent. “It’ll be okay—"  
  
“No it won’t!” He yells, and Leo stumbles back. “It _won’t be okay. Nothing_ here is _okay._ There’s twenty crates of faebane in there with my name on it!” It echoes in the empty hallway, heavy in the sunlight and breeze.  
  
His hands are shaking again. They tremble, rattling the cuffs, the cuffs of faebane. He’s sick and tired of seeing it, of tasting it, of feeling exhausted all the time.  
  
This isn’t him. He’s strong. Alive. On his toes, keeping up with his cousins and aunts and uncles in a never ending game of wit and weaponry.  
  
“Cirron, I…” Leo’s brow furrows and a hand goes to his curls.  
  
“What.” Maybe he should be kinder, considering the lengths Leo has gone through to get him out of the gallery, but this is ridiculous. Being poisoned beyond what his body can handle. He’d like to make it to the end of this bargain very much alive if he can.  
  
He waits for an answer. Leo’s eyes are wide, darting around as if anything can save him. He waits a bit longer before scoffing and pushing off the wall, walking down the hall. He’ll just skip lunch. He’s been doing it anyway.  
  
“Cirron, I can only break so many rules.”  
  
The sentence makes him stop. Keeping his impending anger in check he drawls, “This is a little different from asking for fresh air, isn’t it?”  
  
“He was very specific with how much faebane he ordered, and even clearer that no one should tamper with the system.”  
  
He whirls around. Leo’s face is cold. It seems he’s made his choice. “And what about all that stuff you said before? About not wanting anyone to waste away in your home?”  
  
“That still stands—"  
  
“Clearly it does not.”  
  
Leo stiffens. “Excuse me?” He storms toward him. Cirron doesn’t move, only watching him get closer. “I just announced full responsibility to my sentries, should it be found out that you’re trespassing in the area. _I_ would take the beating. Does that not mean anything?”  
  
“Not if I die from overdose first.” He doesn’t shy from Leo’s heated glare.  
  
Leo growls. “This is ridiculous. I can’t believe—”  
  
“That I’m asking you to provide decent food? Crazy, I know.”  
  
Leo’s fists tighten. “‘Isn’t what I’ve done enough?”  
  
Enough? Compared to everything else wrong with this arrangement? Please. “It’s a start.”  
  
“A _start?”_  
  
“Yes. The next thing you can do is find a way for me to have clean food.”  
  
Leo blinks, leaning back. Then his nose wrinkles. “I’m not your servant.”  
  
“No, but I’m a guest. And don’t you want your guest to be comfortable? Or so I’ve heard.”  
  
Leo crosses his arms. Cirron’s immediately envious. “I forgot how irritating you are.”  
  
“And it seems like you’re truly nothing more than Tamlin’s puppet.”  
  
He watches the targeted words hit deep, right at the insecurity he uncovered on the very first day. Watches Leo’s eyes shutter and darken. Good. Maybe some sense was knocked into him.  
  
Leo doesn’t say a word. He just turns and walks away. Cirron follows suit, continuing on to his room. Perhaps walking away from a potential friendship.  
  
It’s fine. He’ll only be here for little more than two more weeks. Then he’s back to his home. With everyone who truly matters to him.  
  
He ignores the ache in his stomach. And his heart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *update coming soon**


	10. Chapter 10

He ends up in his bed, staring at the coffered ceiling. Replaying the conversation— argument— in his mind.  
  
Maybe he was too harsh. Leo did put in effort to help him. Every sentry in that training hall did too. Maybe it was selfish of him to… throw Leo’s words back at his face. He should’ve acknowledged the effort more.  
  
But… Mother above, all that faebane. He was _scared._ That amount; he’s never seen that much before. He doesn’t want all that in his body. And after seeing the process, the little he’s been eating suddenly seems even less appetizing.  
  
He can’t go to the library; he’s probably not welcome there. And it’d be insensitive. The gallery is still off limits. So’s the training hall. Where does he go tomorrow?  
  
Maybe he’ll just stay here and look around; he hasn’t really checked out his room since he arrived. What if there’s a secret door or a hidden compartment or something? That’d be cool.  
  
He turns on his side, taking a pillow and stuffing his face under it with a groan. Should he apologize? He wasn’t wrong, but… maybe he didn’t need to rub salt into a clearly festering wound.  
  
But how else would he get him to listen? Leo seems set on letting him go through 20 crates of faebane on his own. He needs to protect himself. Like Uncle Az told him; no one else is going to.  
  
This is all so difficult. He shouldn’t care so much; they only _really_ started talking a few days ago.  
  
But… he does. Leo is so obviously in need of someone on his level. Someone who _gets it._ Who understands the expectations, the struggles, and even the joys of being an heir. He’s fairly certain Leo has only had Tamlin and Jodi and Taj. And has never stepped foot over the border. The guy needs help.  
  
And… he’s decent company too. Easy to talk to, even for him. And even though he can be… blind to reason, he has a good heart. Offering his personal library was very kind; personally, he wouldn’t offer his studio, so he can’t help but respect the sacrifice.  
  
But he also doesn’t want to die here either. So what does he do?  
  
…  
  
He turns to his other side, burrowing deeper into the covers. Father would know what to do. He always has advice, no matter the situation.  
  
But Father’s not here right now. He’s on his own.  
  
And he has no clue what to do.  
  
His eyelids start to close on their own, exhaustion rearing its head again. Instead of fighting it, he wills it closer. A nap sounds nice. Maybe by the time he wakes up, the problem will be answered for him.  
  
He’s not hiding, he’s… sleeping on it. Yeah. It’s fine.  
  
He easily succumbs to the pull of exhaustion, and darkness claims him within moments.  
  
  
——  
  
  
Someone’s shaking him. _No,_ he was sleeping so _well._  
  
He growls, reaching up to bat their hand away. He refuses to wake up. Whoever it is can wait.  
  
It’s peaceful for all of two seconds before the hand is on him again. He grips the sheets tighter, ready to give whoever this is a _piece of his mind._  
  
He peels his eyes open, first seeing the floral bedding scrunched in his fist, then the window across the room. It’s dark outside. He turns to subject a withering glare at whoever it is that’s interrupting him. His eyes widen.  
  
Leo’s standing next to the large bed, and he can only describe the look on his face as haunted. His hands move around in his pockets and he’s… in his pajamas.  
  
Everything comes flooding back: the argument, his mixed feelings about it. And Leo’s right there. What does he say?  
  
Leo speaks before he can try and pull something out of the air. “Sorry for… this afternoon. I got upset, but… you were right. It’s too much, everything Father’s doing to you. I couldn’t imagine being in your shoes right now, so… I’ll… keep trying to help.”  
  
He stares, and stares, and he knows it’s becoming awkward on Leo’s end but he’s just… shocked. Leo’s in pajamas. Next to his bed. And clearly feels horrible about what he said.  
  
Leo fidgets in place, and he snaps out of it, shaking his head. “Sorry I just…” He pushes himself up, and Leo takes an unconscious step back, “Wasn’t expecting this.”  
  
The blonde looks away, shoulders tense. “I know, I should’ve left a note or just waited until the morning, but… I couldn’t sleep.”  
  
He was _that_ guilty? Alright, he was definitely influenced by someone other than Tamlin. No doubt about it.  
  
“Well, I’m glad you’ve seen reasoning,” he replies, now comfortably against the headboard with the covers in his lap.  
  
Leo’s brows furrow, and maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say. So he adds, “My reasoning. I do understand your convictions though.”  
  
His lips curve up in a slow smile. “Thanks.” The air between them eases, and it feels like the rift has healed a bit.  
  
It’s quiet for a bit. Then Leo starts backing up toward the door. “I also told Matilde to take the evening off. In case you wanted a break, or privacy, or… whatever. Instead of having someone with you 24/7.”  
  
His heart sinks. “Oh.” No singing tonight, he supposes. “Thank you for considering, but… you don’t have to do that.”  
  
Leo blinks, seemingly surprised by his reaction. Then he brings a hand to his forehead. “Oh, I forgot. You two get along well.”  
  
His lip quirks as he nods. “It’s alright, I’ll see her in the morning.”  
  
Then an idea pops in his head. A wonderful, terrible idea that’s bound to get them in trouble. But it’d be _so good._  
  
Leo mutters a prayer, catching his attention. And the terrified look on the other’s face has him laughing out loud as he squirms toward the edge of the bed. He’s going with or without him.  
  
“Where are you going?” Leo’s voice is higher than usual, and he bites his cheek.  
  
“To the kitchen. I’m taking what I want.”  
  
“Wha— Cirron, _no.”_  
  
Ah, the very words he’s heard all his life, by Kaede, by Father, by Mother, by pretty much everyone. Too bad he’s become immune. “Yes.”  
  
“Cirron—”  
  
“ _Yes.”_  
  
He’s nearly at the door when—  
  
“Alright, _alright,_ at least let me help you.” Leo starts toward him, shoulders tense all over again. “Less chance of you getting caught.”  
  
He can’t keep the victorious grin from his face. Oh, Leo’s so easy.  
  
  
——  
  
  
It turns out Leo can actually cook. Very well.  
  
It smells wonderful. He’s perched on the counter next to one the stoves against the wall, several containers of seasonings around him waiting to be used. He’s never heard of a few of these.  
  
He picks one up and reads the label. _Saffron._  
  
Then it’s plucked out of his hands. Leo dumps a decent amount in the mortar and crushes it. He watches the powder form for a few seconds before losing interest and going back to inspect the rest of the ingredients.  
  
Stock, onion, peppers— what are those?  
  
He picks up the container and checks the label. _Kalamata Olives._  
  
Interesting. He peels open the lid and goes to pick one out of the liquid.  
  
His hand is promptly slapped with a wooden spoon. He yelps, glaring at Leo. Leo glares right back. “Don’t stick your dirty fingers in the olives. Use a fork for goodness sake.”  
  
Fine. He sticks out his hand. Leo glowers, then moves away to one of the many counters, opening a small drawer at the corner. Tiny silverware catches the dim faelight of the room. Tasting silverware. Convenient.  
  
Leo selects a tiny fork and closes the drawer behind him. “Here.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
He may be a nuisance, but he’s a polite nuisance. Taught by the best.  
  
Then Leo goes back to work, poking at the vegetables on the skillet and he goes back to his olives. He stabs one with the fork, expecting a soft give and getting a satisfying crack instead. Nice.  
  
He pops it in his mouth. And bites down on something hard.  
  
“Agh!”  
  
Leo bursts into laughter next to him, holding his stomach. Cirron pulls the olive out of his mouth and holds his cheek, grimacing. “Yeah, okay, laugh it up.” It comes out garbled.  
  
The other wipes the tears from his eyes. “Oh, that made my night.”  
  
The pain in his teeth stings, and he rubs at his cheek, leaning over his knees. “Yeah, I’m sure it did.”  
  
Leo takes shuddering breaths, hand gripping the edge of the counter. “Oh lighten up. You’re fine.” His grin lessens the slightest bit. “Right?”  
  
He waves a hand. It’s fine. It’s about time Leo got back at him a bit for all the strings he’s pulled.  
  
“Cool.” Then Leo pulls up the lid for the rice and a plume of steam billows up from the pot. Cirron watches it float up, and up. Then he remembers the half-chewed olive in his hand.  
  
“Where’s the trash?”  
  
Leo vaguely gestures near the entrance of the kitchen. “Use that one over there.”  
  
He slips off the counter, handcuffs clacking as he ambles toward the front. The garbage bin is tucked in a corner, a new bag at the ready for the breakfast crew. He tosses it in, only to pause.  
  
Someone’s coming. He strains to recognize the scent over the aroma of cooking food. It smells like—  
  
He gasps, backing away from the door.  
  
It’s Tamlin, coming down the hall and there’s no way to hide all the ingredients and food in time—  
  
“What? What is it?” Leo whispers, barely audible.  
  
He hurries toward Leo and mouths, _Tamlin._  
  
Leo’s eyes turn terrified in a second, and he frantically gestures to the storage closet farther down along the wall. He hustles, gripping the chain of his cuffs to keep them nearly silent. Leo follows him, and when he’s settled on the ground and tucked in a corner between two meeting shelves, his hand glows in golden light. The same magic runs up his body, from his folded legs to the tips of his hair.  
  
It feels weird; like a rush of pins and needles. But he doesn’t complain, especially as he hears Tamlin walk through the door. He can only see the counters directly across from the small arched opening.  
  
“Leo?”  
  
The mentioned fae flinches, squeezing his eyes shut. Then he takes a deep breath and turns around without so much a backward glance. He grabs something off the shelf as he goes, as if he’d only been in the supply closet for more seasoning.  
  
“Hey… Father.”  
  
Cirron’s heart pounds. If either of them gets caught then who knows what the crazy High Lord would do, to him or to…  
  
He swallows, remembering what Uncle Az has taught him about remaining unnoticed. Keeping as still as possible, breathing measured breaths through his mouth, counting every three seconds—  
  
Steps get closer and closer, and then his powerful figure moves right past the closet opening. “Late night meal?”  
  
Tamlin sounds calm. Still deep, still powerful but underneath all that there’s a tenderness to it that he’s never heard before. And the malice he’d become so accustomed to is nowhere to be found.  
  
His straining ears catch the soft sound of the wooden spoon stirring the pot. “Well like you said, I… didn’t eat much.”  
  
Leo didn’t eat either. And he couldn’t sleep. He really is sensitive toward others. The words he’d spat at him burn on his tongue, and he grimaces. Maybe he’ll apologize again. He realizes that it’s been quiet for a bit, save for the sound of boiling liquid and the gentle hissing of the cooking vegetables.  
  
“You haven’t cooked in a long time.” Tamlin sounds hesitant. Careful. Perhaps for good reason. He leans forward the slightest bit, silent.  
  
“Did you need something?” There’s an edge to it, one that warns against probing.  
  
Tamlin is quiet. Then, “I’ve noticed a change between you and our visitor.”  
  
The wooden spoon bangs against the pot, then the boiling sound is muted. “There’s nothing to be concerned about.”  
  
“I am concerned. Those of the Night Court are not to be messed with, you know that.” It comes out darker; an old bitterness coming to head. “Have you forgotten everything I’ve taught you?”  
  
“No,” Leo mutters. The skillet sizzles a bit louder as the vegetables are moved around.  
  
“It seems like you have. I gave you simple instructions. To escort him to the gallery and back. Why is it that whenever I send someone to check the gallery, he’s never there?”  
  
“Maybe he’s going on walks. Stretching his legs.”  
  
“You need to keep better tabs on him, Leo. I trusted you with this job. You’re my son.”  
  
“Only when it’s convenient.”  
  
“ _Leo.”_ Tamlin growls.  
  
“What?” Leo snarls, spoon slamming on the counter and Cirron jolts. “It’s true, we both know it. And I never liked your plan to begin with. It’s… it’s unethical!”  
  
A dry laugh. “You sound like your mother.”  
  
“Good. Better than sounding like you.”  
  
Tamlin snarls back at him, the sound loud in the empty kitchen. Then in a chilling voice he grounds out, “You will do as I say. You are my Second. Now wherever you’ve been taking him, _hiding him…_ no more.”  
  
“I haven’t—”  
  
“I’m not a fool. You’re kind. Soft. Of course you’re helping him. If you don’t get it together,” there’s a pause, “I’m sure Julien would love to take over your task.” He can hear the dark grin in Tamlin’s voice.  
  
“That's not necessary,” It’s said with such conviction that nerves shoot down his spine from whoever this ‘Julien’ is.  
  
“Then prove it.” Steps come back the way they came, and he goes still all over again. Tamlin’s figure breezes past the door again, quicker than before. “Tomorrow he’s back to the gallery. All day.”  
  
What would’ve been a dream just last week is now a prison sentence. The steps continue, and then the sound of boots on marble echoes until it fades away.  
  
It’s quiet. Then the stove is turned off, and there’s a shaky sigh. Still he doesn’t move.  
  
Minutes pass.  
  
Only when he’s sure that Tamlin is gone does he wiggle his way out of the dark corner. He walks loud enough to announce his presence, and when he steps out of the closet, Leo’s back is to him. And for the first time since they’ve met… his shoulders are hunched. Slouched.  
  
It unnerves him.  
  
“You okay?” He walks toward him, taking his time in passing the counters on his right.  
  
Leo doesn’t reply.  
  
He finally reaches him, and hesitantly brings a hand to his shoulder. “Leo?”  
  
“You remind me of her.”  
  
Cirron sucks in a breath, drawing back his hand. His mother. He needs to tread carefully. “Do I?”  
  
Leo audibly swallows, head lowering. “Yeah. Your casual demeanor, how you’re always trying to piece things together… your love for art. I think you two would get along well.”  
  
It certainly sounds like they would. “Is she…”  
  
Leo turns around, wiping at his red eyes. Cirron chooses not to comment, especially when a shaky smile tugs at his lips. “She’s very much alive. And happy.”  
  
_Alive._ Something in his chest loosens at that. “Good,” he replies, and means it. Leo studies him, and his small smile becomes something more real.  
  
“I’m visiting her mid-next week. Taj and Jodi are coming. We’re all looking forward to it. It's... been a while.”  
  
Taj and Jodi? “They’re close with her too?”  
  
Leo leans against the counter, arms crossed. “Very close. She may as well be their second mother.”  
  
That’s… very sweet. And he can clearly see why Leo prefers his mother. Just the way he talks about her radiates adoration.  
  
“Oh, the vegetables are ready if you want to take some. Or you can wait for the rice to finish.”  
  
He grabs the forgotten fork off the counter and strides to the skillet. He stabs at the vegetables with a pointed look at Leo, and the other lets out a light laugh. Then he takes a bite and—  
  
Oh. Wow.  
  
Maybe it’s because he’s been tasting metal the past week and a half, or maybe Leo’s actually this good at cooking, but it tastes incredible. Bright, fresh, and flavored in a way that he’s never tasted, but he doesn’t mind in the slightest.  
  
“Judging by your wide eyes I did a good job?”  
  
Mouth full, he hums his emphatic agreement, going back for more. If the vegetables are this good he can’t wait to try the rice. Then Leo’s there with a fork of his own. “Move over. Don’t hog the food.”  
  
He huffs, swallowing. “You made it for me.”  
  
“Exactly. I made it. Technically I should’ve gotten the first bite.” Leo nudges him aside and takes his own forkful. Then a smug expression appears on the other’s face, one that has Cirron snickering.  
  
“Careful, you’re starting to look like me.”  
  
“Mother forbid it.”  
  
He rolls his eyes amidst the other’s snark, putting down his fork. “I’m leaving room for the rice.”  
  
“It’ll be at least half an hour.”  
  
That’s much longer than he thought. But the vegetables curbed the worst of his hunger, so he can wait. He returns to his spot on the counter, jumping back onto it the way he did before and shimmying back against the wall.  
  
“It’s incredible, how adept you’ve become without your hands.”  
  
He cracks a smile. “Yes, it’s become an art on its own.”  
  
It’s quiet. And he thinks about the lengths Leo has gone through for him again. Cooking for him, hiding him with a glamour, and getting into an argument with Tamlin over him. Despite all Leo’s noise just this afternoon, he’s going above and beyond yet again. As if it’s in his very nature.  
  
“Thank you.” It’s out before he can say it with more grace. Regardless, he continues. “For cooking for me, even though I dragged you down here. And then hiding me. It’s all very kind, and I… didn’t show enough gratitude earlier today either.”  
  
Leo’s smiling by the end of it, a heartfelt one that crinkles his eyes. “You’re welcome. This has been a lot of fun. Exhilarating.”  
  
He couldn’t pick a better word if he tried. He smiles back at him. “Truly exhilarating.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness, this is long overdue. I hit writers block and i wasn't proud of anything I wrote, but five versions later here it is! hope you enjoyed :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's not the weekend, but i finished the chapter already so eh, why not post it anyway :)

They’re both exhausted the next morning.  
  
His plate is a blur in front of him, and after eating so much last night his lessened appetite is sated even now.  
  
He’s not too worried about Tamlin noticing anything off; he’s always lethargic. And Tamlin saw Leo up last night, so it shouldn’t raise suspicions.  
  
“Not hungry?”  
  
Well. He stands corrected.  
  
He doesn’t flinch at the accusatory tone. Neither does Leo.  
  
“Perhaps the copious amounts of faebane has something to do with it.”  
  
Tamlin’s glare settles on him, but he maintains his bored expression. Pokes at his food with a slight wrinkle in his nose.  
  
After a, quite frankly, useless breakfast, consisting of staring at tinted eggs and bread and trying his hardest not to meet Leo’s eye, they start toward the gallery. Only when they’re certain Tamlin is far in the opposite direction do they relax.  
  
“You’re really going to stay in there all day?”  
  
He grimaces. “Unfortunately.” He’s not particularly thrilled about it, but he has no choice.  
  
“I can bring you some lunch. And some books if you want.”  
  
He shakes his head, but he can’t deny the smile on his face. “If you want. I’ll be okay though.”  
  
“I just…” Leo trails off. He braces himself. “You don’t look… healthy. I didn’t think much of it until you confronted me.”  
  
Oh.  
  
…Oh.  
  
He knows he’s… lost weight. And he still avoids mirrors when he can; in the bathroom, in front of the vanity while Matilde brushes his hair, and even any decorative mirrors around the manor. Sunken eyes, thin muscles, thin body. He’s wasting away.  
  
“It’s alright. You can’t help it.”  
  
His hands curl into fists at the gentle tone. He doesn’t need to be coddled.  
  
“I know.”  
  
Leo is quiet. Then, “Have you ever sparred before? Or practiced swordplay?”  
  
His building anger ebbs, leaving only weariness in its wake. Still he replies, “I grew up around weaponry. My very first gift from my uncles were mini swords. Dulled, of course, but the idea was there.” He still has them, displayed on the wall of his room.  
  
“Really?” There’s genuine fascination there, and it startles him enough that he looks over at Leo. The other grins back at him in that classic Leo way that’s fully genuine.  
  
Goodness, he’s innocent.  
  
But the enthusiasm is contagious, dispelling the last of his anger. “Yes. I’m fairly certain it's a requirement for those of royal blood to learn self defense.” But his family is… over the top.  
  
“We should spar sometime.”  
  
He brings a hand to his chain. “I don’t know...” He’d probably check out within the first five minutes.  
  
Leo’s gaze weighs on him. “I remember the look on your face when you first watched us train. You were utterly unimpressed.”  
  
He laughs, though it’s gentle. “I was impressed. But you’re definitely not the best I’ve seen before.”  
  
Leo sucks in a breath and heavily exhales. “You certainly keep my ego in check.”  
  
_That_ draws a real laugh as they reach the gallery. “Good.”  
  
They walk in, and he obediently makes his way to his desk. As he’s pulling out his sketchpad— he might as well enjoy himself— an idea pops in his head. “Any requests?” To switch it up from drawing his home life.  
  
It takes a minute for Leo to respond, and he flips through his previous sketches while he waits.  
  
“Snow.”  
  
It throws him off. He whirls around in his seat. _“You’ve never seen snow?”_  
  
Leo bursts out laughing. “Your face!”  
  
“I’m serious!”  
  
“It doesn’t snow in spring, Cirron.”  
  
“I know, I just… wow.”  
  
Leo looks around at the displayed paintings. As he gazes at a still life, he says, “Draw it as you’ve seen it before. From your room window or outside, playing in it.”  
  
He can do that. And it’ll be a nice challenge to work with negative space. “Alright.” He turns back in his seat and flips to a clean page in the middle of the book. “Now get out before someone checks on me.”  
  
With that Leo is quick to move to the door. “See you at lunch.”  
  
Then the door’s shut behind him and it’s quiet. Early morning light pours through the window, and he gazes at the rolling hills beyond it before focusing on his paper.  
  
Should he sketch the view outside his bedroom window during winter? Or maybe a winter scene, elegant enough to truly belong in Winter. Or the frozen lake him and his cousins skate on every year in the Mountains.  
  
Decisions, decisions.  
  
He opts for the view outside his bedroom window. It starts to form in his mind: the Sidra half frozen over with rivulets of water streaming past the hard sections of ice, the Rainbow on the curve of land beyond it under a heavy blanket of snow mid-winter, long, jagged icicles dangling from every tree and lamppost, and several fae in heavy overcoats and high boots bustling to their next destination to escape the bitter cold.  
  
His fingers twitch, and though his heart pangs it doesn't hurt nearly as much as it did last week.  
  
Uncle Az would be proud.  
  
As soon as his pencil touches the paper he finds he can’t stop; it’s as if he’s been starved of the very thing that gives him life and as he works he wonders _how he managed to ever stop?_  
  
He takes his time, pushing his exhaustion to the back of his mind and focusing instead on getting his vision exactly as it is onto the paper.  
  
It takes time. Lots of time. The sun crawls across the sky, and thank goodness the window is here otherwise he’d be well and truly lost to the rest of the world.  
  
It’s around noon when he finishes the detailed outline the way he likes it. The buildings aren’t quite the way he remembers them— despite that he’s stared at them all his life, it was admittedly difficult for him to pull up the exact image in his mind— but the idea is there. Space where the snow would be is all over the paper; taking the place of the grass, covering the buildings, and filling the barren gardens in front the House.  
  
He’s barely begun shading in, when the door opens with a slight creak. He keeps sketching, waiting for Leo to announce himself.  
  
But he only gets silence.  
  
Odd.  
  
He twists in his seat just in time to watch the door shut. And he’s alone again.  
  
…  
  
Feeling a bit unsteady, he slowly turns back around. That must have been Tamlin’s scout. He really _is_ serious about this.  
  
Maybe they should be more careful. They have a tentative balance at the moment; Tamlin only has well-placed assumptions, no real evidence of their growing friendship.  
  
Hm.  
  
What if… they acted like they hated each other? That could be interesting. Really interesting. It’d take a bit of planning, so as the timing won’t look suspicious but… it’s an idea. He’ll bring it up with Leo.  
  
There’s a flash of golden light.  
  
Speaking of which.  
  
“I come bearing food. Clear your desk.”  
  
Whatever it is smells delicious. He obediently shuts his sketchpad before Leo can see his progress.  
  
“What? Don’t want me to see?” The teasing note in the other’s voice brings a small grin to his own lips.  
  
“You don’t deserve it,” he casually replies as the sketchpad is plucked out of his hands and a plate of pasta salad is set in front of him. _Yes._  
  
As he grabs the fork off the plate, Leo lies back on the bench behind him, his polished boots set firm on the ground. “Taj says he expects to see you tomorrow.”  
  
He smiles. “Oh does he?”  
  
“Yes, he was quite adamant. He says he’d like to see the male he’s putting his back on the line for.”  
  
Oh. That’s… true. And he’s sure he’s not the only one.  
  
He swallows his bite and says, “I’ll be there tomorrow. At some point.”  
  
For some time, the only sound in the room is his quiet eating. Then Leo’s hesitant voice drifts across the space.  
  
“Hey, I… had an idea.”  
  
Five different retorts come to mind, all in varying degrees of snark and sarcasm. Mother would be proud. But he only asks, “What is it?”  
  
“You know how nothing in my library matches?”  
  
He snickers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Cirron.”  
  
He stabs at his pasta, grin fixed on his face. “Yes?”  
  
“I’m serious,” Leo chides, but there’s unmistakable amusement in his voice.  
  
He finishes his next bite and answers, “Yes, my eyes were burning the moment I first walked in.”  
  
“How would you feel about fixing it?”  
  
He nearly drops his fork, twisting in his seat. Leo’s staring at the ceiling, now outright lounged on the long bench. “Really?” Try as he might, he can’t keep the excitement out of his voice.  
  
Leo looks up at him, upside down. “Really.”  
  
He stares down at the floor, seeing various concepts. “I’ve had so many ideas. We could repaint the walls, add some decorative pieces representative of the courts, maybe even paint murals. I also had a few ideas for the furniture, specifically those orange couches. Those have got to go, immediately.” He absently reaches for his sketchpad and grasps nothing.  
  
Leo lifts his arm, sketchbook in hand and tosses it. Cirron catches it with ease— he truly has mastered his handcuffs— and twists back around in his seat. Yet again he flips to a fresh page and starts on a rough layout of the library.  
  
“We just have to figure out how to do this without Father catching on.”  
  
That reminds him.  
  
“I had an idea too. Right before you came in.”  
  
“What is it.”  
  
The dry response has him choking down a laugh as he starts adding the furniture to the layout. “We should act like we hate each other.”  
  
Leo doesn’t respond at first. Then, “You want to do it to throw off Father?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And no other reason?”  
  
His pencil stills. For once, nothing in Leo’s voice betrays how he’s feeling. He glances behind him; Leo’s staring at the ceiling, blank as could be.  
  
He didn’t know it was possible.  
  
So he takes an educated guess. “I don’t hate you.”  
  
Leo’s gaze drifts over to him, heavy and analyzing.  
  
He patiently waits for him to sort out his thoughts, to figure out for himself how he feels about him.  
  
“You don’t match up with what Father says about you and your family. You… feel.”  
  
He tilts his head. He doesn’t know what lies Tamlin’s spouting about them, or what’s been ingrained into Leo’s mind about the world. So he replies, “Yes, I feel excitement, pain, anger, and embarrassment just like any other fae or faerie.”  
  
Leo looks at him a little longer before his gaze travels back to the ceiling. He admits he breathes a bit easier because of it.  
  
“I didn’t know what to think when you arrived. You were so… cold. And sarcastic, and any doubts I had about what Father has personally taught me were silenced. He warned me that you come from a family of creative manipulators with only their self-interest in mind.”  
  
This is a lot. He turns his seat, giving Leo undivided attention. “What do you think now?”  
  
Leo sighs, the exhale so deep it could only come from a weary soul. “I have no idea. What I thought was true isn’t. I've been lied to, by my father.” He spits the last word. “I just don’t know what to believe anymore. Cirron, you’re the complete opposite of what I was expecting.”  
  
He offers a sympathetic smile, head in his palm. “Sounds like Tamlin’s the creative manipulator.”  
  
Leo looks up at him again, and his heart pangs at the utter confusion in his eyes. It seems like such an awful place to be in; to realize your rooted mindset of decades isn’t accurate.  
  
Leo sighs again, looking away. “It’ll be fine. I’ll... figure it out.”  
  
And that’s another thing he’s heard too often. Leo brushing these things off.  
  
So he says, “I know we’re not that close, but… I’m open to answer any questions I can. Share my side— our side— of the story. Compare notes, if you will.”  
  
The story of their families. He doesn’t need to explain it; Leo understands.  
  
“You’d… do that?”  
  
“Mhm.”  
  
“And you won’t lie.”  
  
“I swear it.”  
  
Leo watches him with a hardened gaze, assessing him all over again. He understands the mistrust, so he keeps his face and posture open. Unguarded.  
  
Friendly.  
  
A soft smile grows on Leo’s face, and he looks up to the ceiling. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”  
  
Then he reaches out and offers his hand.  
  
His own heart beats faster. His parents would have a fit. Truly befriending the son of the male who ruined their lives.  
  
Leo sends him a knowing look. “Not so easy, is it?”  
  
His lips quirk in a half-smile. “No, it’s not. And it might not ever be.”  
  
Leo doesn’t put down his hand.  
  
Alright.  
  
If he’s willing.  
  
He takes his hand. They shake on it.  
  
Identical grins spread on their faces.  
  
“Now, what were you saying about hating each other?”  
  
Cirron pulls his hand away. “Do you want to?”  
  
The look on Leo’s face is identical to when they decided to sneak him into the training hall. “I wouldn’t mind getting back at him.”  
  
  
——  
  
  
Dinner is an orchestrated disaster.  
  
He makes a show of looking angry, glaring at Leo every so often, pushing his food all over his plate as if he’d lost his appetite over whatever ‘happened’.  
  
Leo keeps his face cold, as cold as when he first arrived. Vacant, his movements stiff as he quickly and efficiently finishes his plate. He apparently couldn’t care less if he tried.  
  
Tamlin’s entire demeanor has relaxed. He doesn’t cut his food like he’s trying to slash the table under it, and his posture is looser.  
  
Sucker.  
  
After dinner, Tamlin rises to leave. Leo stands as well and prowls around the table, his back perfectly straight and steps measured. Cirron glares at him as he comes closer, vicious and authentic with bad memories and old anger.  
  
Leo’s face might as well be stone.  
  
Then he’s _yanked_ by his chain out of his seat and a cry escapes him as the cuffs dig into the bruises in his skin.  
  
He catches Tamlin’s grin out of his peripheral before he’s dragged toward the door. He growls and pulls back, though it cuts into his bruises more. “Let go of me! I can walk on my own.”  
  
He’s only hauled forward. Heat threatens to flush his cheeks at the subtle reminder that he’s far lighter now, weaker, but he forces it back. Leo keeps a stranglehold on the chain. “Shut up and keep walking.”  
  
He’s pulled along until they’re in front of his door. Then Leo lets go and he’s all large eyes and furrowed brows. He takes a wrist in his hand and inspects it. “Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to pull that hard—”  
  
“Are you kidding? That was great! Did you see his face?”  
  
Leo checks his other wrist, confirming for himself he’s okay. Only then does he smile, though hesitant. “He ate it up.”  
  
“This is going to be fun. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”  
  
Leo doesn’t meet his gaze. There’s something off, but he doesn’t say anything.  
  
Before he can ask, Leo shakes his head. “As long as you’re okay with it. With what I just did.”  
  
Oh. Him and his big heart.  
  
He brings a hand to the other’s arm. “Relax. It’s all for show, isn’t it?”  
  
Leo shifts his feet. “Yes, but—“  
  
“Then it’s okay.” When the concerned look doesn’t leave his face he adds, “And if you’re truly uncomfortable, then we can ease up on the dramatics. Alright?”  
  
The other’s shoulder’s relax. “Alright.”  
  
“Good.” He opens the door. “See you tomorrow.” He offers a mock salute before slipping in and closing it behind him.  
  
He pauses.  
  
Matilde’s hands are on her hips, foot tapping.  
  
But there’s a smile on her face.  
  
He glances down before walking toward her. “You overheard.”  
  
“I did.”  
  
When he reaches her, she brings a hand up to his cheek before reaching down and unlocking his chain. As usual, he goes into several back breaking stretches.  
  
“You’re friends?”  
  
He finishes his long stretch to the heavens before he replies. “Yes.” He realizes with a jolt that yes, he is friends with Leo. It’s strange to say, but… true. He starts stretching his sides.  
  
“Good. You be careful, alright?”  
  
“Yes, Matilde.”  
  
“Be smart.”  
  
“Yes, Matilde.”  
  
As soon as he’s upright again, clothes are stuffed in his hands. There’s a spark in her eye. “And don’t. Get. Caught.”  
  
He smiles and dips his head. “I’ll do my very best.”  
  
“Good. Now off to the shower. And I brought a book tonight, if you’re interested.”  
  
He walks a little bit faster with the incentive. He closes the door behind him and takes a deep breath in the silence of the spacious bathroom. Then he gets ready for bed, steady and calm and generally relaxed.  
  
That night Matilde reads to him, cozy under the duvet with his head on her lap and her fingers combing through his hair. Her voice is nice. Soothing.  
  
She doesn’t chain him. He snuggles closer to her for it.  
  
Sleep, deep, heavy sleep overtakes him before the story is finished.  
  



	12. Chapter 12

_“I don’t know, Kaede…” He peers over the edge of the rocky cliff, the highest he’s ever been. Thousands of feet below them, green land stretches on for miles. The wind ruffles his hair, nips at his trembling wings.  
  
A strong arm wraps around his small shoulder and squeezes. “You can do it. Your wings are stronger than you think.”  
  
He looks up at his older cousin. Kaede is grinning at him, nothing but pride in his hazel eyes. He draws strength from it, taking in a shaky breath. “Okay.”  
  
“Remember what you’ve learned. Keep your wings in position as you dive. Keep your balance. And make sure you enjoy it.” Kaede pokes his chest with the last few words, then pulls his arm back and nudges his shoulder. “Trust yourself. And I’m here, if anything goes wrong.”  
  
Right.  
  
Okay.  
  
He starts backing up. Kaede cheers, fists pumping in the air and he can’t fight the grin that spreads on his face.  
  
He’s doing this. He’s doing this.  
  
No backing down.  
  
He shakes out his arms, rustles his wings. Then he gets in a starting position.  
  
Three… two… one!  
  
He sprints forward, wings poised and ready behind him. His steps pounding in the dirt, his heavy breathing, his racing heart; the stretch of land between him and the drop off gets shorter and shorter.  
  
Kaede’s still cheering him on.  
  
Ten feet.  
  
Five feet.  
  
He pushes off the rocky ledge, flipping, diving head first.  
  
It’s incredible.  
  
The icy wind roars in his ears as he plummets, cutting through his wings, the pressure against his face—  
  
Alive. He feels alive.  
  
He laughs, shouts with pure joy, and all his nerves are gone. No stress, no anxiety, no expectations.  
  
Just him and the wind and the wonderful feeling of nothing but air around him.  
  
Free.  
  
  
——  
  
  
Mother’s studio is once again packed, sparkling with the melody of laughing and talking children.  
  
“No, hon, you can’t eat the paint.” He tugs the paintbrush out of the young faerie’s small hand for the third time, and picks her up when tears build in her wide eyes. “You can be my personal helper instead. How does that sound?”  
  
The tears clear away, and she nods with a hesitant smile. He tickles her neck, and she giggles, sending his heart pattering.  
  
“Cirron, grab me another tin of lavender, will you?”  
  
A quick glance over shows him a spilled tin of the aforementioned color, and a guilty-looking faerie standing next to his mother.  
  
He nods at her. “Of course, Mother.”  
  
He snaps his fingers and the spill is gone with half a thought. The child in his arm gasps, no doubt at the tin of lavender that has appeared in her hands.  
  
She looks up at him, eyes now bright with curiosity.  
  
He only grins and brings a finger to his lips. Her eyes widen even more, if possible, and she brings a finger to her own lips.  
  
  
——  
  
  
The outdoor eatery isn’t nearly as packed as it could be, especially on such a nice day. The Sidra is aglow in the early afternoon sun, its gentle licks foaming against the edge of the land just feet from the sitting area.  
  
Even though they have more room, could pull more tables over to spread out, they don’t.  
  
Instead they squash themselves at a square table, two seats on each side and a bowl of chips in the middle.  
  
“Then a breath later Truth-Teller was at my throat.” Addy finishes her retelling of her and Kaede’s exhilarating night, nothing but pride in her eyes, eyes that match his own. “It was awesome.”  
  
“I can’t believe I missed it,” he grumbles, stuffing his hand in the bowl and pulling out way too many. Several chips fall out of his hand, and next to him, Addy is quick to swipe them for herself. “Where was I? And Father?”  
  
“Uncle Rhys was watching. And you were in your studio,” Kaede replies, lounged in his seat across from him. His golden hair tumbles over his shoulders. “Remember? You wanted to finish that portrait for Cam’s birthday?”  
  
Right. Their crazy red-haired friend, heir of Day. He’d loved the gift, had squeezed him until he couldn’t breathe.  
  
“Right.” He stuffs a whole chip in his mouth, taking the inevitable risk of stabbing his gums.  
  
“I’m surprised you two lasted so long against them.” Yaz comments, curled in her seat and shadows fluttering on her small wrists. She’s still getting used to them, working with her father on controlling them but she’s come a long way emotionally. They all have. Her being here, talking, laughing; it’s a victory.  
  
Her and Cam have come a long way after… what they went through. He shoves it out of his mind.  
  
“Honestly, me too,” Kaede chuckles. “They must have been going easy.”  
  
“Or,” Addy drags the word, “We’re getting better.” She tucks a dark tendril behind her ear. “Be positive.”  
  
Kaede smiles at her, with a look so full of love and care that he almost looks away. He’s fairly certain they have a bond of their own, one only twins can share. “The fight lasted longer than a few minutes, sis. Between us and centuries old Illyrian warriors. I’m being a realist.”  
  
“Alright, alright.” She waves a hand. “So they might have dragged it out, but it was still fun.”  
  
“What was more fun was our parents squabbling like younglings.” Kaede adds, and Addy bursts out laughing, crumbs flying. Yaz winces, but her soft smile doesn’t falter.  
  
“Oh yeah!” Addy leans forward, primed to tell yet another story. “After the fight was over, they started arguing over who has the best child.”  
  
He snorts. “Typical.” He takes a sip of his flavored water, his mouth dry after all the chips. “Did anyone win?”  
  
Kaede’s brows furrow. “Well, Uncle Az got the final word in before Mother appeared.”  
  
“And she wasn’t happy about the damages.” Addy finishes. “But she didn’t stay mad too long. Aunt Feyre was a bit more upset though.”  
  
“Maybe she’s tired of finding holes in her walls.” A shadow curls around Yaz’s ear, phasing through her golden hair. She doesn’t flinch as she watches the shadows on her wrists, then looks back up at them. “You know, because the house was built for her.” Her dry tone is eased by the amusement in her hazel eyes.  
  
“Agreed.” He rests his head on his palm, the corner of his mouth quirked.  
  
“Alright, alright.” Addy waves her hand again, the motion integral of her free spirit. “We’ll put up shields next time.”  
  
Cirron laughs. “I think she actually means to keep the fighting in the training ring.”  
  
“Nonsense!” Addy says, loud as ever. “Father encourages us to practice. It’s easier to sneak up on someone in the House. Speaking of which.” She shifts her attention to Yaz, who’s eyes widen a bit. “Thank you for your tips. He had no idea we were there.”  
  
Cirron lifts a brow. “He probably did.” A quiet laugh has him grinning back at Yaz.  
  
Addy huffs, crossing her arms. “Does anyone else want to downplay my victory?” Kaede clears his throat. “Our victory?”  
  
Him and Yaz look at each other. Then they flash their older cousins saccharine sweet smiles.  
  
“Good job, you two.”  
  
“Yeah, you really impressed them, for sure.”  
  
Kaede tries and fails to keep a straight face, lip wobbling and Addy throws a chip at him. It bounces uselessly off his chest.  
  
  
——  
  
  
He grips the small painting in his sweaty palms, heart pounding. Each step is loud in his ears against the wood floor, bringing him closer and closer to his father’s office. He could’ve winnowed in, but… he’s nervous. This lengthy walk from his studio has given him time to relax; cool his nerves.  
  
It’s only heightened them.  
  
Still, he keeps walking forward. He turns the corner, and the doors to the office loom at the end of the far too short hall. He slows down, grip tightening.  
  
It’ll be fine. Father’s never once complained about his Father’s Day gift. Ever. Every year without fail, Father opens the door for him with an eager smile.  
  
And every year without fail, he’s a bundle of nerves anyway.  
  
He reaches the doors. They open for him, gliding into the room on silent hinges. Father grins at him from his seat behind his sizable wood desk, head on his palm. “Cirron.”  
  
“Hey.” His voice wobbles a bit, and he winces. He clears his throat, then walks into the room. The doors shut behind him, and his heart stumbles at the definitive click.  
  
He passes the walls of books on each side, passes the small sitting area on his right and Father stands and walks toward him. They meet halfway and then he’s in Father’s arms. It’s nice. His father’s familiar scent grounds him, steadies his heart. A hand settles on the back of his head.  
  
He soaks it in for a bit longer before slowly pulling back, looking up at him with a smile. “Happy Father’s Day.”  
  
“Thank you.” Father juts his chin at the painting in his hand. “For me?”  
  
He nods, lifting it and handing it off. It’s sizable, and Father pulls it out of the thin white sleeve. He stares, and stares at it.  
  
Suddenly his nerves are back full force. “Do you like it?”  
  
A slow smile graces his father’s features, and when he meets Cirron’s wary gaze the starlight in his eyes is brighter than usual. “I love it.” He holds it up proudly. “They get better and better every year. Though you could dump a bucket of paint on a canvas and I would still be proud.”  
  
He smiles, hand on his neck. “Yeah, I know.”  
  
Father brings him in for another hug with one arm and squeezes tight._  
  
  
——  
  
  
His eyes fly open and he sits up, panting. His heart’s beating way too fast, threatening to fly out his chest.  
  
Memories, so many, too many, plague his mind. Complaining with Aunt Amren, letting Aunt Mor play with his hair—  
  
His stomach twists, and the little food he’s eaten roils in his stomach. He brings a trembling hand to his mouth, scooting out of bed, but stops at the chains holding him back.  
  
The nonexistent chains.  
  
He’s free tonight.  
  
Wasting no more time he rushes to the bathroom on weak legs and barely makes it in time before he’s coughing up his lunch. His retching is loud in the large bathroom, and he grips the cool porcelain like a lifeline.  
  
_Cirron, I swear if you don’t come down from the banister right now—  
  
AH! It’s burning! Cirr— stop laughing and help me!  
  
You little gremlin! Get back here!  
  
I’m always here for you. And don’t you forget it._  
  
Tears build in his eyes as he catches his breath, the taste foul in his mouth.  
  
He misses them. He misses all of them _too much._  
  
Will he ever see them again?  
  
_Two weeks.  
  
Two more weeks. _  
  
He heaves, but nothing comes out and he whimpers as his stomach tightens, tightens so much he curls inward with it.  
  
Sweat has his pajamas sticking uncomfortably to his body.  
  
_“Do you wanna go out?”  
  
He fights to pull his gaze away from a particularly bold letter sent in by an angry florist. “Out?”  
  
“Yeah. Take a break. Go out. Outside.”  
  
He looks up. Cam’s leaning all over his own documents, amber eyes wide and begging.  
  
Clearly he needs a break.  
  
He puts down his paper, and with half a thought all their work is neatly stacked in respective piles. “Okay.”  
  
No sooner does the word leave his mouth, Cam is there gripping his arm. He can’t help but laugh at the relief pouring off his friend. “Hold on.”  
  
Bright light, so different from the shadows he’s used to during winnowing, pierces his eyes, and the blinding sun of Day very nearly finishes them off.  
  
Cam laughs as he winces, blinking hard. Then he wraps his arm around him, leading them deeper into the city. His city. “C’mon, Mini Bat. There’s a new ride installed that I know you’ll love.”_  
  
He squeezes his eyes shut, hands curling into fists. He misses them all, so badly that it hurts. He misses early morning sparring with Uncle Cass, he misses finding his cousins during the day and following them around, and he must be on the verge of losing it since he even misses the Illyrian mountains.  
  
His stomach still twists, still feels unwell. He’s not going back to bed. He shifts as carefully as he can, reaching up and flushing the toilet, then fitting his arms on the toilet seat and resting his head on them. It's not the most comfortable position, but it’ll do.  
  
  
——  
  
  
He wakes to hands on his shoulders. In his hair.  
  
“Cirron?”  
  
Matilde.  
  
It’s too bright. Too loud. He can hear the birds outside louder than before, hear the wind rustling the roses in the garden, hear the slight sound of Matilde’s fingers running through his hair, scritching along his scalp, hear her heart, can smell the still-fading stench of his sickness.  
  
It takes every fiber of his being to lift his head from the hard toilet rim. A hand settles under his aching jaw, lifting it the rest of the way.  
  
_Mother’s fingers, long and slender, resting on his sweaty cheek, thumb rubbing his forehead. “Sleep, Cirron.”_  
  
He squeezes his shut eyes impossibly tighter. The hand draws away and returns to their previous rest on his shoulders.  
  
“What’s wrong, hon?”  
  
He flinches away at the caring words, heart unsteady and beating just as hard as last night.  
  
Something’s wrong. This is more than just homesickness this is… this is…  
  
He whimpers, curling into himself. His stomach is still unsteady, still churning and threatening to force up nothing. He feels just as awful as last night.  
  
He’s not getting any better. If anything he feels worse. Everything’s too much.  
  
“No breakfast,” he rasps, and he definitely shouldn’t have because his stomach lurches. He heaves over the toilet.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Matilde moves away as his stomach folds in on itself, and the sink runs. Then she’s back, a cool cloth on his straining neck and he leans into it.  
  
“Did you eat dinner?” Her voice is calm, a steady anchor. He only shakes his head, trembling.  
  
“Was there faebane in your lunch?”  
  
He shakes his head again. The birds are _louder_ somehow, loud and incessant and a headache is starting to make itself known at the front of his skull. The bright faelight, and the wind is _beating_ against the window and he wants to do nothing more than hide in a dark room.  
  
“Up. You’re going to rest.” She may as well be screaming, and he whimpers, bring a finger to his lips. She’s far quieter after that, getting her hands under his arms and pulling him up. He stumbles, willing strength into his wobbly legs and it’s awkward until he’s finally up. The wall proves to be an excellent guide and support, and he keeps a hand on it until he reaches the doorway.  
  
From there he ambles across the room and barely crawls onto his bed before flopping on his stomach, regretting it, and pushing himself over on his back.  
  
“You said you haven’t eaten.” Matilde moves around the room, closing the heavy curtains and every window covered brings a measure of relief. “Your body is making up for the lack of poison.” There’s an edge on the last word, sharp with anger she’s expressed to him in the past.  
  
“I feel terrible.” He throws an arm over his eyes.  
  
“You’ll feel worse.” The last curtains are drawn and with a quiet command the faelights dim until they’ve winked out completely. He sighs, the dark soothing but not enough to sit up. “Relax. I’ll get a healer for when you wake up.”  
  
“I can't.” Not while everything is demanding his attention, not while his mind is racing, not when he’ll only wake up to pain—  
  
Matilde’s hand settles in his hair. “Try. For me.”  
  
For her. For her. For her.  
  
He tries to calm down, tries to relax but everything’s so vivid and loud and alive, and he’s stressed, and what if he’s stuck in Spring forever? What if he’ll never fly again? What if Leo’s a talented liar, and has been fooling him this whole time? What if… Matilde’s faking her care for him? He’s only a prisoner here, a worthless prisoner.  
  
What if Tamlin does something to him, makes him disappear? There’s a prison somewhere around here, apparently. He doesn’t know when that happened, but what if he’s thrown in a dark cell, injected with faebane for the rest of his life? Like… like Yaz. And Cam.  
  
No. No, his parents wouldn’t let that happen.  
  
_It’s happened before._  
  
No.  
  
No.  
  
_What makes you any different from them? They’re both powerful, and they were still taken._  
  
What?  
  
_You’re certainly no more powerful than they are right now. In fact, it’d be easy to make you disappear._  
  
Who—  
  
“Cirron!”  
  
He jolts, jerking away from the hands before realizing it’s Matilde. It’s hard to breath, and sweat is pouring down his back and his heart’s beating too fast toofast—  
  
She’s yelling something.  
  
He can’t, he can’t, he gonna be taken away he can’t—  
  
Large hands grip his wrists, and he snarls, fighting back. He will _not_ be dragged away.  
  
Strength he hasn’t had in what feels like decades courses through his veins. He yanks at the grip, and when that doesn’t work he falls back and lands a solid kick to the fae’s chest. The male grunts, hold loosening and he wastes no time shoving him away. He scrambles for the door, for freedom.  
  
He’s tackled to the ground, and he yelps when his bones hit the wood floor. The weight lessens, and he jabs his elbow back, twists and lands a punch, lightning quick. Breathing hard but _refusing_ to be taken away.  
  
The male grabs his wrists again, and he tries to throw their weight but he’s not heavy enough. So he knees him.  
  
The male cries out, and he shoves him away, going for the door but his knees slip, these stupid soft pants. But he gets his bare feet under him, sprints and reaches the door, throws it open, sprinting down the hall—  
  
He’s on the ground before he even knows what hits him. His head aches, and he barely gets the chance to whimper before he’s pulled up, held in a chokehold and he gasps for a breath he can’t take.  
  
Pine and magnolia.  
  
Tamlin.  
  
The male rushes out the bedroom, eyes wide.  
  
Brown eyes. Eyes he knows.  
  
…  
  
Leo.  
  
_You’ve ruined everything._  
  
Shut up, shut _up—_  
  
He struggles, kicking at him, prying at Tamlin’s hands, but he’s weak and they’re iron around his throat and he coughs, spots appearing in his vision.  
  
“It’d be so easy to twist your neck,” Tamlin murmurs, voice shaking with what could only be vengeance. “Or snap it. Or…” A cold blade settles at his neck, and panic has him struggling harder. The spots in his vision grow and he’s helpless as the sharp edge presses deeper into his skin. He whimpers.  
  
Leo’s yelling something, but he sounds too far away, not important enough to warrant divided attention from the knife at his neck. It’s a little funny being unable to hear when he was just overloaded minutes ago.  
  
Or was it hours ago? He really can’t remember.  
  
He still can’t breathe, fingers weak over Tamlin’s hand and it’s hard to… hard to…  
  
His head falls forward before he realizes it, but the cold edge has disappeared. He ends up staring down at the marble floor. At the limp hand at his side, and he sees the eye. Tattooed on him. A part of him.  
  
His parents.  
  
Maybe…  
  
He spears his panic and fear and anger at the bond behind the mark.  
  
_Help. Help. Help. Can’t breathe._  
  
The hand doesn’t move from his neck, firm, waiting for him to pass out. No, no has to stay awake, to see his parents.  
  
He loses the fight, and his eyes roll back.  
  
  
——  
  
  
A familiar snarl, heavy and dark and the epitome of nightmares, full of rage, burning rage.  
  
Sweet air filling his lungs and he gasps, trembling.  
  
A hand in his hair, rubbing his back, his head cradled on someone’s chest. Not Matilde.  
  
No, no it can’t be…  
  
“Addy,” he mumbles. She shushes him, and it shocks him to his core. It’s really her. “Addy, Addy, Addy—”  
  
“I know.” The hand brushes the hair off his sticky forehead. “I know.”  
  
He struggles to open his eyes, to see any member of his family. Stars around him. Stars and darkness and siphon power. His eyes are covered with a calloused hand. “The bargain.”  
  
The bargain, the _stupid_ bargain. He’s tired of it, tired of it all. He reaches up to pull her hand away but she gently holds it. Entwines their fingers. Kisses his cheek, and he melts all over again. This affection isn’t like her, but he certainly won’t complain. “You’ve been so strong.”  
  
“He tried to kill me.”  
  
“He can’t. You’re one of us.” The blunt fact, said as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, assuages his fear, his anxiety in a way that trying to relax never could. His fingers claw into her shirt.  
  
There’s a clang, followed by a pained groan. He stiffens.  
  
“Tamlin. Head slammed into the railing by Kaede,” Addy supplies, voice thick with satisfaction.  
  
A wall crashes.  
  
“Tamlin. Thrown into the wall by Aunt Feyre.”  
  
A grin tugs at his lips.  
  
There’s the sound of a piercing, stabbing something. A faint gasp.  
  
“Uncle Rhys. Spears of dark, pinning Tamlin to the same wall, choking him.”  
  
Then Father’s voice rumbles, low and threatening and the very air seems to tremble. He can’t make out what he’s saying.  
  
Though even while Father’s hissing death threats, a tendril of dark smooths over his cheeks, ruffles his hair. A smile splits his face and tears leak out of his eyes at the glimpse of home, and at the reminder of what his own power felt like.  
  
A heaviness settles over his mind like a net, undoubtedly Mother’s power.  
  
His heart leaps. _Mother!_  
  
She coos, her phantom touch resting gently against his mental wall. _I miss you, sweetie.  
  
Uncle Az said you and Father aren’t coping well. _  
  
She falls silent, though her presence never wavers. He can’t feel her emotions, she’s not allowing them to be felt through the bond, but he can take a guess. _It’s not your fault, Mother. And it’s not Father’s fault either._ He swallows. _I chose this. It’s my responsibility to make it through._  
  
There’s a shaky breath, and he knows he hit the mark. _I… understand,_ she grits. _But he still debated kil—_ She breaks off. Then with a voice trembling with writhing anger, _He shouldn’t have that choice in the first place. And we’re not leaving until changes are set in stone._  
  
Her voice is steel resolve. It brings immense relief, and he slumps. Far away, Addy’s grip on him tightens. Changes?  
  
_Yes. Big changes._  
  
Good. Good.  
  
_Cirron…_ Her voice is quiet. _Can you do something for me, hon?  
  
Yes, anything. _  
  
She hesitates. Then, _I need you to sleep._  
  
He cringes. _Anything but that._  
  
She laughs, and it’s music to his ears. _I know you don’t want to. But we need to take care of some things. And you can’t be awake for it. We’re already breaking the bargain by being here._  
  
Right… they’re not allowed to physically meet. _Mother—  
  
I love you, Cirron. We all do. But you need to let us work, without breaking the bargain further. _  
  
He holds onto Addy tighter, her strength, her warmth. They’re so close, _feet away_ from each other. _You won’t be here when I wake up._  
  
Her pain doubles his own. _I know.  
  
I can’t even see you. Please, don’t leave me here. Please—  
  
Things are going to change. I promise._  
  
The heaviness presses in, surrounding his mind and compressing, forcing him to sleep. She hums a soft lullaby, one from when he was younger. He holds on tighter to Addy and she rests her head on his, her dark hair falling over them like a curtain and he fights to stay awake, to cherish their comfort and presence a little longer. Until he can’t anymore. 


	13. Chapter 13

The fog lifts from his mind, leaving only a faint headache.  
  
He recognizes the softness under him as his bed, and with a quiet sigh he burrows into the duvet and turns his face into the pillows. There are voices murmuring, and eventually he’s coherent enough to understand what they’re saying.  
  
“They were quite demanding. I think I’ll be okay.”  
  
“I know, but for your safety—”  
  
“I’m not leaving him.”  
  
It’s quiet. Then there's a trembling sigh. “I didn’t know what to do.”  
  
“I understand.”  
  
Things slowly start to come back to him, dropping into his mind like falling marbles one at a time. Being sick, falling asleep in the bathroom, being sick again, panicking, Tamlin, Father, Addy, Mother—  
  
He sits up, scanning the room for anyone from home. He only sees Leo and Matilde, wide-eyed.  
  
They’re gone.  
  
_Things are going to change, I promise._  
  
Mother’s voice is music to his ears, the memory of her sweet, and despite that she’s not here it hits its mark. A smile tugs at his lips as he wonders just how badly his family terrorized Tamlin after seeing his condition.  
  
Going by the shaken expressions on the others’ faces, they pulled no punches.  
  
He lifts a hand to wave at them, opting for a non-threatening approach but stops. He stares at his wrist, lifting the other up.  
  
The chains are gone, and two golden wrist cuffs gleam in the sunlight. The faebane is inlaid, the gold on top designed in woven patterns but the stone has clearly been treated; it’s clear and shines a deep amethyst. He twists and turns his hands, staring at the sleek new additions. They fit perfectly, taking up a little less than half his forearm.  
  
“That’s only one of the changes,” Matilde says and he looks at her with wide eyes. Her returning smile is sympathetic, and she gestures to the desk. “They left you quite a few things.”  
  
He looks to his left and grins. Trunks and boxes, large and small, are stacked on each other and pile high.  
  
He recognizes the size and shape of one. His heart leaps and he scrambles out of bed, ignoring the sudden spike in his headache and slight dizziness and tearing for the trunk leaning against the desk.  
  
Yes, yes, yes—  
  
He flicks it open and gasps. “Mr. Pointy!”  
  
There’s utter silence behind him as he pulls the sword he’s had since birth out of its casing. He wasn’t allowed to use it until he was nineteen. The weight is incredibly familiar, the embedded jewels glitter in the afternoon sunlight, the dark hilt is polished to perfection—  
  
“You named your sword Mr. Pointy?”  
  
The disbelieving tone darkens his mood and he glares at Leo. “How dare you.”  
  
Leo wilts under his cold stare, and takes a step back. “Sorry.”  
  
He glares at him a little longer before turning back to his beloved and reverently sliding it back into the scabbard. There’s more boxes all around, but there’s an envelope with his name written on it in Father’s script laying on top of a large trunk. His heart speeds, and he crawls over and reaches for it.  
  
  
_Well. Good morning, son. It took a few hours, and you may feel more groggy than anything but it’s done. New terms that, unfortunately, don’t replace the others but hopefully make the burden far easier than it previously was. These are effective immediately, no matter what nonsense Tamlin tries to pull.  
  
Though he’ll probably need a few days to fully recover.  
  
  
\- 50 hours a week allowed spent outside  
\- Unlimited time with our mental conversation  
\- Access to the Open Hall, with a personal trainer handpicked by Cass  
\- 5 crates of faebane for the entire rest of the stay. The other fourteen have been disposed of.  
\- Under NO circumstances are you to be allowed in the dungeon  
  
  
  
After taking one look at you, we knew the changes that would need to be made. Unfortunately the effects of withdrawal will have to run their course. With the amount you’ve been given, you’ll need to wean yourself off the faebane… Cutting it off completely was dangerous, but thank the Mother nothing happened that couldn’t be fixed. Madja gave you something to take the edge off for the next few hours, and left behind mixes and brews to help with the difficult process, along with a report detailing everything you should know.  
  
He wouldn’t budge on a few things: The chains are gone, but the bands are there. Though far thinner, we needed to have the same amount of faebane that was in the previous cuffs, so they take up more of your arm. Let us know what you think. Personal training won’t start for a few days; we want to give you some time to recover.  
  
Unfortunately, we used up our mental conversation for the week, but I look forward to hearing your voice. Hearing your smile. And hearing all about how you’ve inevitably made the most of your situation.  
  
Okay. I’ll let you go. I’m sure you’re itching to get outside.  
  
I love you, Cirron.  
  
Father_  
  
  
He stares at the elegant script, reading the terms over again, hardly believing that it's real. Then he sets the note down with a shaky hand, looking around at the boxes, wanting to go through each one but also needing to go outside.  
  
One glance out the window makes his decision for him.  
  
He stands, walking toward the door with his hands shoved in his pockets because he can.  
  
“Where are you going?” Leo warily asks.  
  
“Outside.”  
  
He walks out the door, savoring the quiet, the peace after such a crazy morning. The halls are abnormally empty, but he can’t say he minds the silence.  
  
Suddenly Leo appears next to him. “Can I come with you?”  
  
He shrugs. “It’s your job, isn’t it?”  
  
Leo is quiet. Then, “Maybe not for much longer.”  
  
What?  
  
He looks over and is taken aback by the guilt all over his face. And it just now hits him that Leo was barely in all the commotion. He didn’t do anything to help when he couldn’t breathe, when there was a knife at his throat.  
  
Leo hesitantly meets his gaze and flinches. “I… everything happened so fast.”  
  
“What happened?” He struggles to keep his voice measured. Despite the torrent of questions and anger, he desperately wants to believe there was a good reason.  
  
Leo runs a hand through his curls, coming to an abrupt halt. Cirron waits.  
  
“I… he… you didn’t recognize me, I don’t think… and I was trying to… I don’t know. You ran and when I got there Father had you. I didn’t know what… I mean you said to act like we hate each other so I… I don’t know, I tried—”  
  
The longer he talks, the more his impatience grows. He hadn’t realized how comfortable Leo’s become with him until he started stuttering again.  
  
“—tried talking with him, but, but he wasn’t listening a-and—”  
  
“Leo.”  
  
“I’m _sorry,_ I didn’t know what to do, _please,_ Cirron you have to believe me.”  
  
He hates that he does believe him. Hates that he wants to give him the benefit of the doubt, and that there’s no way the blonde intentionally hurt him.  
  
He sighs, starting toward the stairs and beckoning Leo to follow when he doesn’t. The other is silent, staring at the tile.  
  
“What happened when I was choking?” He keeps his voice low, trying to calm Leo down.  
  
Leo inhales, and it rushes out through his nose. “I tried to convince him to let you go, without blowing our cover. In… in that split moment I figured… it’d be better in the long run.”  
  
“Okay. What happened when I passed out.”  
  
Leo flinches, wringing his hands. “I… I don’t know.” At his returning flat look Leo tries again. “Your family blasted through the front doors, but they hadn’t seen me so… Father glamoured me and gestured for me to leave as subtly as he could. I-I think it worked.”  
  
Leo doesn't think his family noticed him. He should only hope that Yaz or Uncle Az and their shadows weren’t here.  
  
They reach the bottom of the stairs. “So why do you feel so guilty? It was an order.”  
  
“Because I ran!” Leo explodes, and he takes a step back. “I ran out of _fear._ Stupid fear. I’ve never, I've never seen anyone from the outside and the moment I did I was… terrified.” He starts pacing back and forth across the large foyer, voice heavy with disbelief. “I dreamed about it all my life. My first chance at seeing someone new, and I _ran._ To make it worse, I ran away from you when you needed help, after my own father forced you unconscious. And you were just… lying there. Limp. You looked dead. And all I had done was try and _talk._ ”  
  
It takes a moment to process everything. He… understands his decision but… “I would’ve thought a friend would do more.”  
  
“I know. You’re absolutely right, and I’m sorry I made the wrong choice.” Leo stares at him with pleading eyes, still wringing his hands. “I should have done more. Mamá would have my head if she knew.”  
  
He holds Leo’s pitiful gaze until he doesn’t, letting loose a heavy sigh. “You’re making it difficult to feel mad.”  
  
Leo remains solemn, though he doesn’t wring his hands nearly as violently.  
  
It must’ve been a lot, being confronted with something you’ve pondered all your life; a dream shrouded with fear. He doesn’t know what he would do, if he’s being honest with himself. Even though he was choking, and his _friend_ only watched.  
  
...  
  
Sometimes he really hates his empathy.  
  
He sighs, holding the other’s gaze again. “It’s alright Leo. It was stressful, I do understand. But—”  
  
“But I’ll be better next time. I promise.”  
  
“Don’t promise me anything.” It’s out before he can stop it, and he cringes at his own tone. Shoves away the threatening pain. “But I appreciate your enthusiasm.”  
  
Leo only nods, mercifully confusing his slight screw up with lingering anger. “Okay.” A hand drags through his curls. “Okay.”  
  
He starts walking again toward the double doors, which are… in pretty bad shape. They’re thrown open, with scorch marks and burns marring the deep wood. Spring is alive beyond those doors, and seeing the earth waiting for him lights a childlike excitement in him that he shoves aside; now’s not the time.  
  
“Now. I’m going outside for the first time in nearly two weeks. And you’re going to show me Spring.”  
  
A hesitant smile inches onto Leo’s face. “You’d let me?”  
  
“Who else would I ask?”  
  
It’s apparently the wrong answer, and Leo’s face falls. He lets the question hang in the air, until it gets too heavy and he amends it. “I mean, you are the Heir of Spring. And a friend. So it really does work out, doesn’t it?”  
  
Leo looks away. “Right.”  
  
  
——  
  
  
The walk is initially silent. Awkward. It reminds him too much of the first week he was here, but he doesn’t know what to say, and neither does Leo apparently. So he distracts himself with taking in Spring in all its glory.  
  
It really is quite beautiful here. There’s something about Spring that just trumps spring back home; it feels… calm in its very essence, in a way that runs deeper than just a trifling emotion. The grass is soft as silk, and his bare feet hardly make a sound as they walk through the trees. The breeze rustles by, nudging the branches and pulling along stray leaves as it goes and it’s so much purer than the air inside the manor that he has to stop and just breathe. There’s all different types of flowers, with a hint of salt that tells him there’s a body of water somewhere nearby.  
  
“Do you... like it?”  
  
He lazily opens his eyes and finds genuine nerves written all over Leo’s face. “Of course I do. It’s gorgeous.”  
  
The other’s face brightens, effectively matching the joy and light of Spring around them. “Really?”  
  
Cirron watches him. He’s never seen Leo outside before but he… fits. The deep brown of his eyes reflects and shines in the sunlight, as Cam’s do, as his own do at night under the stars, and his posture is at ease out here. Grounded. Like he knows exactly where he is and where he’s going.  
  
_Heir of Spring._  
  
The painting forms in his mind, and he sees it clearly. Vividly. But he shoves it away.  
  
“Yes, really.”  
  
Leo looks around at the trees, then presses his hand against the trunk of the nearest one. As if he can feel the life under his hand. “I love it out here. Even though I’ve been here all my life… it’s still special.”  
  
He could very well say the same thing for his home as well.  
  
Leo starts forward again, and he follows. “Do you feel that way too?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
A small bird lands on Leo’s shoulder, chirping and he smiles, bringing a knuckle to its tiny face. Cirron stares in surprise, but quickly schools his face back into nothing when Leo looks at him again. “So what’s the Night Court like at night? Father told me all the bad things of course, but… there must be something good there. I mean you love it, so it can’t be all bad.”  
  
He cracks a smile for the first time, and Leo relaxes. “What, you don’t think I’d love it if it was only full of terrible fae and creatures?”  
  
Leo scoffs. “No. You’re not as broody as you lead people to believe.”  
  
He raises a brow. “You don’t think so?”  
  
“Not at all.” The bird flies away, and he brings his hand back down. “Like when I was cooking and you were going through all the ingredients with this childlike curiosity. I don’t know. Small moments like that remind me that you’re not who my father tries to convince me you are.”  
  
He ducks under a low-hanging branch. “It seems I’ve let my guard down too much, if you think I’m all sunshine and roses.”  
  
“I never said that. But you are complex.”  
  
He’s not wrong.  
  
Several beams of light stream through the trees and paint the grass a lighter shade. The birdsong increases tenfold.  
  
He stops, taking in a deep breath yet again. Just being outside, soaking in the elements, hearing everything from the smallest creatures rustling in the grass, to the heavy crashing of larger beasts looming in the distance. Just hours ago he was in agony; now there’s only bliss, and the fresh air is doing wonders for his headache. Still a bit dizzy, but he’s alright.  
  
“We can stay out here, if you’d... like? I can grab your sketchbook. Or paints. Or whatever you want.”  
  
He nods, not bothering to open his eyes.  
  
Leo disappears.  
  
And he’s alone.  
  
He could walk away. Run. Make his way to a border and cross it, alerting a High Lord of his presence.  
  
He could.  
  
But what would come out of it? Nothing but more trouble than he has energy to deal with right now, not to mention all the trouble his parents just went through to make his stay more pleasant.  
  
So he settles down on the cloud-soft grass and rolls on his stomach. The sun warms his back and he sighs, stretching hard until his muscles protest. If only he had his wings. It’s a beautiful day for flying.  
  
As if in response to his thoughts, a heavy gust of wind blows through the trees and he shivers as he reaches for a nearby flower bud. Its delicate ivory petals curve toward the sun and layer over each other. He twirls the fuzzy crimson stem between two fingers, watching the tiny yellow stamens spin.  
  
“White mountain avens.” Leo reappears, settling next to him and dropping his armful of supplies. Cirron lifts an eyebrow. It looks like he brought the entire desk. “Also known as _Dryas Octopetala._ Aren’t they beautiful?”  
  
“They are.” He lets it go and reaches for a small canvas and one of the painting sets. The sun is hitting a boulder up ahead, and something about the angle is making it look ethereal.  
  
Leo grabs a spare sketch pad and a pack of pencils, and moves to rest against a nearby tree.  
  
He blinks. “You can sketch?”  
  
Leo shrugs. “A little. Mamá does it for a living, so I was brought up into it. Lighting and shading, perspectives, all of that.”  
  
“You never said you could draw.”  
  
“You never asked.”  
  
His mouth clicks shut.  
  
They quietly work on their own projects, but try as he might he can’t get over the fact that Leo’s artistic. He supposes it makes sense; he’s an emotional male, despite how hard he tries to strangle his own feelings into submission.  
  
Ironic.  
  
The sun crawls across the sky, moving away from the rock but he continues working on the scene.  
  
Finally he puts his brush down, hands a paint-splattered mess and several brushes resting in different tins. It’s not his best work by far, but it’s about as much effort as he wants to put in right now. His headache is slowly coming back, growing heavier with each minute that passes and the dizziness isn’t far behind it.  
  
He shoves the supplies aside and moves his canvas, then lowers his head into his arms. The ground comes up much faster than he expected and his head aches on impact.  
  
“Cirron?”  
  
He grunts, content right where he is.  
  
“You okay?”  
  
He doesn’t reply.  
  
“Cirron.” Leo’s voice changes into something more sassy and he’d roll his eyes if it didn’t feel like they’re already in the back of his head. Maybe they are.  
  
“M’fine.”  
  
“No you’re not.” Suddenly Leo’s next to him, pulling him up and he scowls at the light all around him. “I think the medicine is wearing off.”  
  
He laughs, sarcastic. “You think.”  
  
“Up you go.” Suddenly they’re standing, and the world spins. He’d collapse right back to where he was if Leo didn’t catch him. “We need to get you to bed.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Then they’re cutting through space, and they're in his room. It does horrors for his scrambled mind, and all this spinning is starting to turn his stomach.  
  
“Don’t you dare vomit on me.”  
  
He laughs, even as he falls forward and ends up on his bed. His soft, nice bed that cradles every limb and he stuffs his head into the pillows.  
  
“I’m going to get Matilde. Stay conscious.”  
  
“Wait! What about my painting?”  
  
“I’ll get it after you’re taken care of.” Leo sounds further away, closer to the door.  
  
“What if it rains?”  
  
“Maybe you shouldn’t have passed out outside.”  
  
He scoffs, even as the door shuts and he’s left in silence. “I didn’t pass out,” he mutters to himself, snuggling into the pillows. “Stupid Leo and his lies. Didn’t tell me he could draw. We’ve known each other for two weeks! Never showed any kind of interest in art.” He takes on a falsetto, “I’m Leo and I have daddy issues. I’m a poor pathetic fae who’s stuck in Spring, who doesn’t have the guts to leave and spite my father. Poor me.”  
  
He stops, staring at the ceiling. His heart beats with every throb, and it’s starting to spread on one side of his head.  
  
Ow.  
  
He burrows deeper into the covers, piling pillows on top of himself until he’s become one with the bed.  
  
This is nice.  
  
It feels like only seconds have passed when the door opens again.  
  
“Cirron?”  
  
“Are you sure he was here?”  
  
“I swear, he doesn’t listen to anything I say. _Cirron_ this isn’t funny.”  
  
He can't help the devious cackle that crawls from his throat. Leo sighs, and steps come toward him before the pillows are yanked away. He cries out at the bright light, hissing threats but Leo only drags him to the edge of the bed. “Matilde is trying to help. Just relax.”  
  
Relax? How can he relax when he has such energy flowing through his veins? “I can’t _relax._ I feel _alive.”_ He scoots to stand up but Leo keeps a stubborn hand on his shoulder as Matilde mixes… something. It smells weird. “The power of the world flows through my veins!”  
  
Matilde laughs, and he smiles back at her.  
  
“Try,” is Leo’s boring response. He’s so boring.  
  
“I don’t want to.” He tries to stand up again but Leo won’t let go. “I want to run, to fly, to fight.”  
  
Leo’s brows furrow. “Fly? You really are out of it.”  
  
He opens his mouth to disagree because no, he’s _fine_ and he knows exactly what he’s talking about thank you very much, but Matilde pours steaming hot water into the small bowl and suddenly the smell is all the more pungent.  
  
He covers his nose. “I don’t have to drink that, do I?”  
  
“Sorry, hon,” she gently hands him the mug and presses a light kiss to his head. The heat seeps into his trembling, colorful palms. “It’s for your own good.”  
  
This close it smells even worse than before. “What’s in it?”  
  
“Dried Valerian root.”  
  
“Va-what?”  
  
“It’ll help calm your nerves. Plug your nose and drink it.”  
  
The heat’s starting to burn his hands, and he quickly hands it back to her, wincing. “It’s too hot!”  
  
Leo holds his hand out to the mug, and a light wind sweeps through the room and targets the mug. It cools the liquid until the steam very nearly disappears.  
  
He wrinkles his nose. “Did that come out of you?”  
  
“Just drink, Cirron!”  
  
Fine, fine. Matilde hands it back, and he plugs his nose and chugs. About three gulps in, the flavor sours his tongue but he drinks until there’s nothing left. When he pulls the mug away, it’s taken from his grasp and a canteen of something replaces it. “Drink.”  
  
He does, and to his relief the foul taste fades to something manageable.  
  
“Better?”  
  
As good as it can be, he supposes. “What’s in the canteen?”  
  
“Water, with sugar mixed in. Not enough to spike your heart rate, of course.”  
  
“How do you feel?” Leo asks, watching him like an explosive about to go off.  
  
He shrugs. “Fine.” As long as he ignores his symptoms; hopefully the tea will kick in soon. He stands and smoothly evades Leo’s quick grab, and though his head spins he hurries to the desk where the trunks and gifts are patiently waiting to be opened and explored. Leo lets him. “Let’s see what my family left for me.”  
  
To his delight, the first few trunks are his clothes. His wonderful, fitted clothes that aren’t green or yellow. His earrings, his watches, his necklaces, everything’s here. Harper is definitely responsible; he’ll need to thank her. Unfortunately.  
  
Aunt Elaine packed him enough sweets to last him a month, and no doubt Yaz helped as well. His favorite mug, his favorite wool blanket, his favorite snacks, his soaps and shampoos, everything is here and with every new box he opens his excitement grows.  
  
He reaches a case that he recognizes as one from his studio. The scribbled handwriting on the note pasted on top puts a smile on his face, and he plucks it off the case.  
  
_Worked on this for nearly a week, you self-sacrificing loser. Stay alive.  
-H_  
  
He shakes his head, tucking the note in his pocket and unfolding the case. When he pulls it out, his eyes widen. It’s a painting of… him. He’s lounged on a throne of gold and obsidian, his power swirling around him as if he hardly cares enough to tame it. What’s most important about the setting, however, is that he’s surrounded by greenery.  
  
She placed him in Spring.  
  
“Wow,” Leo says from behind him. He’s too busy blinking back tears to say anything. “What did the ‘H’ stand for?”  
  
“Nothing. No one.” He reverently places the painting on the desk. She really has outdone herself. He’ll need to start working on something better.  
  
Kaede and Virgil both wrote pages-long letters to him, and they look like whirlwinds on their own so he pushes them aside to read later. Yaz gave him a jar of morning quotes, no doubt all of which range from delightful to morbid and he can’t wait to read.  
  
He’s scanning through Addy’s list of things to do while in Spring when Leo quietly says, “Your family seems close.”  
  
“We are.” He snickers at _Climb a tree and do your best imitation of a bird’s mating call. Then run._  
  
“And protective.”  
  
“Mhm.”  
  
“And powerful.”  
  
“Mhm.”  
  
“They sound like a lot of fun.”  
  
He grins. “They are.”  
  
_Steal seeds from flowers Aunt Elaine doesn’t have. Climb the tallest tree you can find and stand on one foot. Run rampant through a village; but don’t hurt anyone._  
  
Leo’s quiet after that. He doesn’t push, partly because he doesn’t want to spook him and partly because he doesn’t feel like it; the tea is kicking in. He’s not sleepy, thank goodness, but… slower. As if the world itself has slowed down for him.  
  
“Hey, are you hungry? You never had breakfast.”  
  
He pulls his gaze away from the list, blinking as the sentence processes. “I could eat.”  
  
Leo stands up and offers a hand. “I was reading the instructions from your personal healer. They’re pretty specific and I don’t think you’re coherent enough to handle the small details, but essentially we have to give you food with faebane and incrementally cut the dosage.”  
  
Incremental… dosage…  
  
Leo tugs him toward the door. “Don’t think too hard. I’ll take care of it.”  
  
Alright. He lets himself be guided toward the kitchen, content with himself check out for once.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm BACK!! Boy does it feel good to post again. 
> 
> I know I'm throwing names and characters at you, lol, bear with me. Cirron has a whole life back home, and his cousins have a whole lives of their own and I'm sneaking them in :) It'll all come together. Trust me. I've been slipping them in throughout the story, but last chapter was... a lot. 
> 
> If you're back with this story, after the 7 week hiatus then THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR BEING HERE!! You waiting for an update means the world, and re-reading comments and watching the hit number go up even when I didn't post gave me energy to write again. And if you're new, then welcome!! You all are the best.


	14. Chapter 14

_~~Hey Cirron  
  
So I heard that you’re gone. I’m trying to stay strong, like you always tell me  
  
  
Please come back, I can’t do this  
  
  
Please  
  
  
How dare you  
  
  
I can’t believe you  
  
  
I miss you  
  
  
~~ I don’t want to be alone here. You didn’t tell me you were leaving, you didn’t do that thing where you pull on my brain to tell me something. You apparently didn’t tell your cousins either, and that’s messed up. You messed up. It’s not the first time, of course, but it certainly hurts more than all the others for obvious reasons. Kaede was the one who pulled me aside and told me you were away, and he looked awful, with bags under his red eyes. You should talk to him first when you get back. I’ve been thinking about it, and I think he would be hurting the most out of everyone (except your parents) knowing that he lost another sibling again. Addy too.  
  
But I can hear you asking me how I’m doing.  
  
  
~~I’m hanging in there  
  
  
I’m alright~~  
  
  
I’m. Not good. To be honest. I just… I miss you so much. I forgot just how unbearable Illyria was before we became friends, and it’s been a harsh reminder every day. Bullies, what are you gonna do? Only attacking when you’re gone. Such cowards, am I right?  
  
I defend myself as well as I can but… well you know how it goes. I get nervous and fall apart, and then I end up in the infirmary.  
  
But at least the fae in here are bearable. And Ty comes to see me whenever he can. Sometimes he brings Kaede and Mateo and Cedric. Once, we had a giant game of cards. It was really fun, you would’ve loved it. Addy stopped by once to say hi, but I think I asked her too many questions because she got mad and stormed out. I’m not upset though… I think she’s just scared for you. Yaz and Theo visited too, together of course, and we chatted for a while about all of Theo’s craziest ideas, and how some of them miraculously worked. It was fun to look back.  
  
So I guess I haven’t been totally alone. But none of them are you.  
  
I’ve been in the infirmary often enough that Ty is threatening to make me stay with him every waking moment in the day to avoid the bullies; they tend to stay away from me when he’s around. I mean I get it, he's my brother and he’s scared, but honestly fractured ribs and concussions aren’t that bad, you know I’ve had worse. The not flying part is the bad part. I’ve been flying anyway… even though it hurts. You know I have to, you know it’s an escape, and I know that you would be helping me. You’d do something cool with your magic to help the pain go away and it’d be fun.  
  
Or you’d sneak me back to your fancy house during the night and we’d raid Aunt Elaine’s stash of whatever she made that morning. Then come back the next morning exhausted and sick to our stomachs.  
  
Ignore the tear stains on the paper, okay? And the blood, I changed my bandages cause the nurses are pretty busy right now. Don’t worry about me, just… just make sure you come back. Politics is something I don’t understand, and you know I don’t usually question your heritage but… but is this what you’re going to have to deal with for the rest of your life? Because this stinks, not only for you but for your loved ones too. You’re not safe, and it’s driving me crazy, and it’s driving your family crazy and Kaede is beating himself up and Addy is violent and Yaz is quiet and, and I’m…  
  
I don’t know. I’m a mess of emotions, which I know I can’t afford to have here but I do, and…  
  
I miss you. This hurts. I hate this. I’m mad. I’m terrified. And I don’t want to end this letter because that means I have to say goodbye. I don’t even know if you’ll ever see this, but… I don’t know.  
  
Come back soon or I’ll lose it.  
  
  
Virgil.  
  
  
PS- Today Theo gave me a new puzzle to take my mind off of you. It worked for a few hours, but then I solved it. Apparently I broke a record, so thanks I guess. But then he said he’s going to pick out one that even he’s never been able to solve, so actually I take back my thanks  
  
PPS- It’s about a week later and I just learned that you will in fact be seeing this. But everything still applies. Can you bring me back a souvenir? Is that wrong to ask? Sorry if it is. But I don’t think you’ll mind.  
  
PPS 2 - If you can sneak back a letter, please do. It’ll be our secret.  
  
PPPS- Okay I’m done I promise. Be safe. _  
  
——  
  
  
He shouldn’t be out here. It’s dark, and he’s a fool for being in the woods at this time of night.  
  
Virgil’s letter…  
  
The biting cold air stings his blurry eyes, and he stuffs his hands in his pockets. He’s an idiot. He’s the worst friend in the world. He left Virgil on his own, in Illyria of all places. Virgil, who’s quite possibly one of the sweetest Illyrians he knows. How could he—  
  
The tears slide down his cheeks. It’s alright though, since no one’s out here to see.  
  
He can imagine his friend lying prone in his cot, staring up at the ceiling with no one to talk to except the nurses— though they know him quite well already— and solving puzzles in all of his spare time.  
  
Living the life of before they were friends. Before _he_ befriended Cirron. Back when no one wanted to hang out with the snobby son of the High Lord. Of course, nothing’s changed and no one in their age group does to this day except Virgil. But all he needs is one friend. One solid, understanding friend in that Mother-forsaken place, who apparently is too caught up in how Cirron’s doing to focus on his own injuries.  
  
He’s the worst.  
  
The moonlight is stark, bathing the swaying grass and rippling lake in white light and he breathes in the cool breeze. The forest surrounding the clearing certainly isn’t quiet, with branches colliding against each other overhead in the slight breeze and creatures in the distance moving through the foliage. The crickets are singing a song only they understand.  
  
He takes a second to just breathe.  
  
The afternoon flew by, with more kitchen antics but less of the fun; there were chefs in there this time. His method of torture today was refusing everything Leo offered him, no matter how delicious anything sounded. Though it wasn’t all a show; he truly wasn’t hungry, and with all of his parading he suspects that Leo’s aggravation wasn’t totally fake. He’d managed to stay awake a few more hours. But he fell asleep with his sketchbook open and his pencil in hand, sluggishly sketching out ideas for Leo’s library.  
  
When he woke up it was dark, yet he felt wide awake. And it’s a nice night; the stars are clear and shimmering against the clear navy expanse of sky, and how could he not go outside? So he decided on a walk, and brought Virgil’s letter along; Kaede’s is still too intimidating.  
  
He also brought Mr. Pointy with him of course, and a few of the blades Uncle Cass packed him are strapped to his thighs. The weapons are familiar weights, and he found himself walking taller on the way to this lake that him and Leo walked past earlier. Though with his sword resting against his spine he can’t help but miss his wings. And Virgil beside him.  
  
He forces himself to look at his reflection; to look at the damage done to him. He hasn’t lost anymore weight, thank goodness, but he’s still thinner than he’d like. The dark circles are only slightly faded, but the starlight is still missing from his eyes. They’re too normal, too dull, too… gray.  
  
He imagines his wings protruding from his back, the talons polished and gleaming over his shoulders. He imagines his power dancing at his fingertips and running along his arms and billowing around him, eager to do his bidding. He imagines being strong again, being capable, and looking like the heir he is.  
  
He blinks and everything fades. And he’s still pathetic.  
  
He sighs and turns around, having had enough insecurity for the day. The forest is darker than he remembers, but he squeezes the papers in his hand and walks right into it.  
  
  
——  
  
  
“Cirron?”  
  
There’s hands on him, and he scrunches his face, pushing whoever it is away. He’s comfortable.  
  
“Our shift is over, and I don’t think you want to be caught like this.”  
  
Our… who…  
  
He begrudgingly peels his eyes open and registers light first. Then his eyes adjust, and he recognizes the grass with his weapons laid out, and the pale morning light of the sun just beginning to rise. Then he realizes that his cheek is up against something soft, and when he lifts his head he finds Jodi curiously looking down at him. He’d been curled against her side. Taj is kneeling in front of them, watching him carefully as he gathers his bearings. And he’s holding Virgil’s letter.  
  
Cirron frowns and gestures for it, wanting it out of the hands of someone who doesn’t know or understand Virgil. Taj quickly hands it over with an earnest apology and asks, “How are you feeling?”  
  
The longer he’s awake, the stronger his headache gets and he recognizes the painful stab of his empty stomach. Last night is foggy, but he vaguely remembers leaning against a tree for a brief rest. His mind is spinning as he stares at the both of them. “Why’re you out here?”  
  
Taj pulls his hand away, looking at him with sympathy. There are bags under his eyes that only accentuate their sharp gray, yet there’s also something else that makes them seem… haunted. Exhausted. He doesn’t have time to dwell on it though as his heart rate picks up on its own, enough that his breath catches but he stubbornly pulls away from Jodi and scoots forward. “We were a part of the night shift last night, and found you on our route. Nothing had been out of the ordinary at that point, so we decided to keep you company.”  
  
“And to keep you safe,” Jodi adds. “You shouldn’t have been in the deep forest so late at night.” She’s still sitting against the tree, with an elbow on her bent knee. She looks calm out here, and her braid is coming undone over her shoulder. It only throws him off even more; last he saw her she was watching him like he was the least trustworthy fae in all of Prythian. Now she’s letting him lie on her shoulder?  
  
He rubs his eyes, bringing his knees to his chest. His heartbeat thuds against them, and though he’s hardly moved he still feels dizzy. Heat works its way under his skin, and he feels his face flush. “Thank you.”  
  
Taj smiles at him, then stands and offers a hand up. “We can escort you to the manor. Vanni’s probably losing his mind wondering where you are.”  
  
He grimaces as his headache spikes, and sweat breaks out on his forehead. “I don’t think I can stand.”  
  
The very air seems to pause, and suddenly he’s under the scrutiny of both of them. The heat burns him from the inside out and he slumps.  
  
“Woah, hey,” Taj is on the ground again and pushes him back against the tree and suddenly he looks the most serious Cirron has ever seen him. “Take it easy. Breathe deeper for me. Breathe in… and out. Good. Again. Breathe in.”  
  
He obeys, focusing on Taj’s voice. Jodi says something, but he doesn’t process it as he struggles to settle his beating heart.  
  
“Just keep breathing nice and slow. In… and out. Jodi is getting Vanni as fast as she can.” He can’t respond, but he nods even as he sweats out of his skin.  
  
“Do you want to take your shirt off? It might help.”  
  
He furiously shakes his head, and instantly regrets it when his headache spikes again and he whimpers.  
  
“It’ll help. Will you feel better if I don’t look?”  
  
Taj’s voice sounds strange, as if it’s far away and his ears are waterlogged. He can’t focus on anything except this heat under his skin and before he knows it his hands are pulling off his shirt on their own.  
  
Time jumps again and he’s flat on his bare back on the cold grass, and it’s the best thing he’d felt in a long time.  
  
Then his mouth is pried open and something nasty is forced down his throat and it’s _awful,_ what was that?  
  
He smacks his lips, face scrunched. “How come everything I eat tastes bad?” It comes out slurred, but Leo nevertheless smiles apologetically. When’d he get here?  
  
“Sorry. You know the rules, while you’re here you suffer.” Leo laughs at his own joke, though it dies off when no one else joins in. Cirron scowls. “Sorry. Uh, bad joke.” A cold breeze rushes through the trees and it feels heavenly on his flushed skin. “Lie here a little longer, yeah?”  
  
He doesn’t reply, instead closing his eyes again and soaking in the suddenly cold air around him.  
  
“What happened?” Taj quietly asks from somewhere in front of him.  
  
“He’s being carefully brought off the faebane, but he missed his dosages.” Leo raises his voice at the end of the sentence, but he ignores him. He’ll get him back later, when he actually has energy again.  
  
“Will he be okay?”  
  
“Yes, when the medicine kicks in.”  
  
He focuses on his breathing, in through nose and out through his mouth and soon he feels the medicine start to work. His heart is beating less like it’s trying to explode out of his chest, the sweat all over him is starting to cool, and the pounding headache is starting to ease up. He doesn’t move an inch, only letting the medicine do its job.  
  
Eventually he feels good enough to open his eyes again. Taj is staring at him with nothing but concern, and though Jodi is leaning against a tree a few feet away as a lookout she keeps an eye on him as well. Leo, however, looks completely calm as he looks him up and down. “How do you feel?”  
  
He pushes himself up on his elbows, wincing at the aches in his arms. “Better. Thank you.”  
  
“Mhm,” Leo hands him his shirt and he’s quick to take it and put it on. Even though it sits uncomfortably on his skin- the sweat has gone cold- it’s better than being bare. Now that he can think straight again, he recognizes that both Taj and Jodi are armed to the teeth. Probably from patrol. “We need to get you some breakfast before the medicine turns your stomach.”  
  
He sighs and nods again, even as he wonders when this became his life and how he met such kind fae here.  
  
Leo looks at his friends. “Thanks for staying to help him.”  
  
“It’s no trouble.” Taj watches Cirron a little longer, until he finally looks away and focuses on Leo. “I need to talk to you later.”  
  
Leo suddenly looks very concerned, in that way of his that centers completely on whoever needs his help. “Are you okay?”  
  
Taj slowly nods, even as his face announces that everything is the opposite of okay. “Yes, it’s just…” His gaze darts to Cirron then back to Leo, “...family issues.”  
  
Leo nods, apparently understanding the very broad statement and takes Cirron’s wrist. “Okay. I’ll stop by the barracks a little later.” Then he winnows them away. They end up on the floor of his bedroom, and then Leo disappears again.  
  
He sighs again and pushes himself up against the side of the bed. His mood sinks lower and lower as the silence reminds him of his thoughts from last night. Of Virgil. Of his family. Of how badly he hurt them. He’d only been trying to help, he didn’t mean to…  
  
He blinks away the stubborn tears. Stop crying _stop crying_ —  
  
Suddenly Leo reappears in front him and gets on his knees to offer him a bowl of oatmeal.  
  
He hates oatmeal. But he doesn’t put up a fuss, only taking it and mindlessly grabbing the spoon.  
  
“Hey, you okay?”  
  
He doesn’t meet Leo’s imploring gaze, only focusing on stirring the brown mush in the bowl.  
  
“Do you like oatmeal?”  
  
He shrugs, staring at the food in a desperate attempt not to cry. If he does then it’ll look like he’s sobbing over oatmeal. He’ll look pathetic, more so than he already is.  
  
“I can get you something else—”  
  
“If Taj and Jodi were in danger, and you could do something about it, then you’d do it, right?”  
  
“Absolutely.” The answer is swift.  
  
“What if…” he swallows around the lump in his throat, stirring the oatmeal even as his stomach clenches on itself, “What if you did it without telling them? And they were mad?”  
  
Leo’s quiet. Cirron nervously waits for a reply.  
  
“I would apologize for scaring them. But I wouldn’t apologize for saving them.”  
  
“What if… what if—”  
  
Leo holds out his palm and an apple appears. He quickly takes it and Leo takes the bowl from him.  
  
“What if you had a way of telling them, but you didn’t think about it at the time because you were stressed, and scared, but a little bit excited, but also really scared—”  
  
“You were scared to come here?”  
  
He only sighs again and takes a huge bite of his apple.  
  
“I was scared too.”  
  
Mouth full, he looks up at Leo with the question in his eyes. Leo snickers and settles, crossing his legs. “Yes, really. You’re my first contact with the outside.”  
  
_The Outside._  
  
Leo helps himself to the oatmeal.  
  
“I just… I thought I was helping everyone, but I didn’t… realize how badly I hurt them. I didn’t realize they were hurting just as much as I was last week. I mean, I was doing my job as Heir. One party presented an offer, and I accepted it after deliberating with my High Lord and Lady. It was official.”  
  
Leo hums. “I suppose that doesn’t make it hurt any less, though. Right?”  
  
_This stinks, not only for you but for your loved ones too._  
  
Virgil can be such an eye-opener at the most random times.  
  
“Right.” It comes out just as deflated as he feels, and recognizing that he’s no longer able to control his voice he starts eating again.  
  
As soon as he finishes the apple, the core disappears and Leo puts down his bowl. “Alright, I’m going to teach you your dosages.”  
  
He scowls. “I don’t want to.” He’s certainly not in the mood.  
  
“Well, you have to, so that this never happens again.” A piece of paper and a pen appears in Leo’s pen and he starts writing down times and days. “Now pay attention.”  
  
  
——  
  
  
It’s hours later when he hears it. He’s walking down the hall on silent steps— he’s gotten good at moving quickly and quietly— when voices travel to his ears. They’re coming from around the corner. He stops and strains to listen.  
  
Someone’s crying. It’s soft, but there.  
  
Then he hears Leo’s voice, gentle and kind. He can’t hear what he’s saying, no matter how much he strains his ears.  
  
So he turns away and walks back the way he came, preparing questions to ask later.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the updates will be coming less frequently, sorry everyone :/ but I'll update whenever I can instead of just on the weekends. Thanks for reading! 
> 
> **oh! and we reached 3000 hits!! woww!! thank you all <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Vanni" is pronounced "Vah-nee", in case anyone was struggling
> 
>  **Content Warning:** Most of this chapter deals with a form of domestic abuse (strangulation); where it starts/ends is indicated by: ********* please use discretion! Check end notes for the summaries of the starred sections if you need to :)
> 
> Thank you for your patience and thanks for reading! And happy holidays!

_Virgil,  
  
  
I’m so, so sorry. I was nervous during the second half of the meeting, and struggling to calm down. They were talking through the terms, and the rules, and even though I seemed calm, and ready, deep down I was scared. And a part of me wanted to back out, but I couldn’t because this is my job. I had to do it.  
  
I knew that talking to you or Harper or my cousins would only end in me panicking more. I’m sorry for scaring you, and angering you, and I’m sorry that I disappeared. I promise I will come back. And I promise that anyone harassing you will regret it as soon as I do.  
  
Things are getting better for me. I go on walks through the manor, but just yesterday I managed to sneak outside as a part of the new terms and I’m telling you, the sun has never looked so bright. It’s really beautiful here, windy with clear skies and you’d love it. Maybe I’ll sneak you in sometime after all of this is over.  
  
I miss you too. This is embarrassing (don’t tell anyone) but I had a dramatic moment staring at myself in a lake in the dark of the night and questioning everything. Feeling guilty. Feeling weak. Virgil, I’ve never been more helpless than I am now. I’m not strong anymore, I look unhealthy, and I can’t even look at myself in the mirror. Even when I do come back, to be honest I’m dreading you and Harper and everyone seeing me like this, and having to take care of me. This faebane really messes with me, and the withdrawal is worse. I’m supposed to be strong, and unafraid, and… I don't know. I just… I just want things to go back to normal.  
  
I miss you. I can’t wait to see you again.  
  
  
Cirron  
  
PS- I will absolutely find you a souvenir, and you will love it  
PPS- Try to listen to the nurses, okay? I’m not there to numb the pain, so please. I know it’s difficult, trust me. But at least we’re grounded together  
PPS 2- Why did you say ‘PPS 2’ instead of ‘PPPS’? And you call yourself a genius  
PPPPS- I’ll try. You be safe too, I better not come back to my best friend in critical condition  
  
  
_ He folds the letter up and writes Virgil’s name clear as day, lest anyone in his family looks at it. Not only is it against the rules— no communication with his family during the week— but he doesn’t need them worrying about him anymore than they already are.  
  
The letter vanishes.  
  
Relief has him slumping in his plush armchair. Hopefully that’ll help his friend feel better, and hopefully he’ll forgive him. It won’t change the fact that Cirron’s not there with him, but it at least provides some explanation. And a promise of his return, which he fully intends to follow through on no matter what happens. No doubt his family will find out about the letter though, and he wouldn’t be surprised if they pressured Virgil into reading it out loud; they seem shaken by his disappearance enough to do something like that. But he’s confident that his friend is strong enough to only read the parts that Cirron would be comfortable with them hearing.  
  
He stares at the pen that came in the pile of gifts from home. This letter also confirms that it works, and he has another way of communicating with them, worst case scenario. It’s against the rules, but… he’s not letting himself die here, if Tamlin ever gets antsy again.  
  
The bond worked out, but he never wants to feel like that again. Desperate, panicked, without any certainty of survival. And as far as he’s concerned, a letter to a friend is acceptable by the terms.  
  
There’s a knock at his door, but he doesn’t bother sitting up as Leo lets himself in. “You need to meet someone.”  
  
Interest has him lazily tipping his head back to look at the other. “Do I?”  
  
Leo strolls over. He’s in trousers and a simple shirt, rather than his uniform. But his boots are just as polished as usual. There’s a set of blades strapped to his hips where his sword normally rests. “Yes. Unless you want to run into him later.”  
  
“Depends. Will I like him?”  
  
“Not many do.”  
  
Wonderful. “Well, then I better get it over with.” He slithers out of his seat and onto his feet, brushing himself off. “What do I need to know?”  
  
“He’s annoying, but he’s Father’s advisor and Taj’s older brother so don’t be too harsh.”  
  
Cirron frowns as he strides over to the vanity. As much as he hates the reflection, he needs to look the best he can. As he grabs the brush off the table he says, “Where has he been all this time? And he’s Taj’s brother?”  
  
“Father sent him off on a mission, though neither of them felt I needed to know what it was.” Leo crosses his arms and glares at the wood floor.  
  
He pauses from his work on his hair. “What do you think it was?”  
  
Leo’s frown deepens. “It could be anything. When they’re together they’re unpredictable.”  
  
The answer doesn’t sit right with him. It’s too vague, for something that could be potentially dangerous. “When did he leave?”  
  
“About a month ago. It’s been wonderful without him around.” Leo finally looks at him, and tilts his head with a slight smile. “What are you doing? You look fine.”  
  
The compliment is sweet, but far from the truth. “You don’t have to do that.”  
  
“Do what?”  
  
“Lie.”  
  
He sets the brush down a little harder than he means to, and moves across the room to the large walk-in closet. He’d transferred all his things from the trunks this afternoon, so they don’t turn wrinkly and unwearable. Having everything here makes the space feel more like his, and it helps with the lingering homesickness. “Is that why Taj looked so haggard this morning? I admit I was fairly out of it, but I noticed he wasn’t as… peppy.”  
  
“They have a difficult relationship,” Leo replies. “And I’m not lying.”  
  
The closet is dark until he walks in, and faelights flicker to life in a dull burn. Instead of arguing over his crippled dignity any longer he says, “Difficult how?”  
  
“Difficult as in it’s none of your business.”  
  
His wandering fingers pause on their own at the blunt answer, and a sharp laugh escapes him. “Okay.”  
  
He quietly lifts up two shirts and compares them. Then a third catches his eye and he shifts the two to one hand to pick it up.  
  
“You don’t have to look fancy, it’s just Julien.”  
  
The name rings true. “Julien? The one Tamlin threatened to replace you with that night?”  
  
Leo huffs, in a way so dramatic that he’s reminded of himself. A grin tugs at his lips as the other replies with a very terse, “Yes.”  
  
“So it’s not the first time something like that has happened?”  
  
Leo falls silent, quickly enough that he looks up from his search for the perfect outfit. The other isn’t visible from this angle, but the silence is tense enough that he stills and waits for the answer.  
  
“We don’t get along, alright? That’s… that’s all I want to say about it.”  
  
Of course he wants to push more on the matter, to squeeze out every answer he can.  
  
“Dinner must be interesting between you three,” is what he says instead as he leaves the closet, and the faelights fade into darkness again.  
  
Leo looks tired, sprawled on one of the couches in the corner sitting area. “I hate it.”  
  
Poor thing. Eighty years of this? “Well, good thing I’m bringing some life to the table.”  
  
Leo smiles. “We could use some. Anything’s better than an awkward silence. Or worse, a two-way conversation.”  
  
He slips into the bathroom and closes the door. “Come back for me in half an hour.”  
  
“Are you _showering?"_  
  
“Leave me alone, go find a bird to talk to or something.”  
  
Leo’s laugh echoes in the bedroom, and he allows himself to chuckle as well. “I’m sorry. I’m leaving.”  
  
The door opens and shuts.  
  
He sighs, alone again, and turns the water to the hottest setting. Julien. Taj’s older brother, Tamlin’s advisor, and he assumes that the male is generally disliked. Taj’s bright laugh from when they first met rings in his ears, and as he peels off his clothes he wonders what in all of Prythian happened to warrant such opposite personalities?  
  
He steps into the shower. The scalding water pours over him, loosening his tight shoulders.  
  
And if Julien is Tamlin’s advisor, then he must have given Tamlin the go-ahead to have him brought to Spring. If he remembers correctly— how could he ever forget his first meeting with a secret Heir?— Leo never wanted him here. He was upset, and scared, yet Julien and Tamlin went along with it anyway. Tamlin trusted Julien over his own son’s comfort.  
  
The thought gives him an idea of the type of male he’ll be facing. Rude. Proud. Someone used to having sway over other’s decisions, knowing how to manipulate others, someone comfortable in their high position.  
  
All of this sounds far too familiar.  
  
Cirron forces the growing discomfort out of his mind. He’s not like that. Sure, he may… present himself that way but he’s not truly like that. He cares for those close to him, and those who are hurting. He wants the best for everyone. He wants Virgil to reach a point where he’s comfortable around others, he wants Harper to shine like the queen she is, he wants Yaz to open up more, he wants Addy to be happy, he wants Kaede to relax for once, he, he…  
  
He wants Leo to be free.  
  
But this has been going on for eighty years. He’s been stuck here for _eighty years._ How could he ever hope to undo that?  
  
The shower is so steamy he can hardly see his nose in front of him, and with that he decides that he’s had enough shower thoughts for the day. Any more would cause a headache. So he turns off the water and steps out, reaching for a towel.  
  
—— *********  
  
  
After nearly an hour and no sign of Leo, Cirron decides to venture into the manor alone. He assumes Tamlin is still down for the count, since there was no official breakfast this morning, so he doesn’t bother hiding himself at all.  
  
Leo’s never late.  
  
“Watch yourself, _heir._ ”  
  
Cirron pauses, backing up to the opening of the small hallway he just passed and pressing himself against the wall. The voices come from around the corner.  
  
“Let me go.”  
  
Leo?  
  
“You’ll slip up. And I’ll be there to see it.” The voice is forbidding, low and dark and a direct contrast to Leo’s strained rasp. Strained as if he’s being choked.  
  
“Alright. Fine. Are you done?”  
  
The male snickers. “What’s the rush? Is someone waiting for you?”  
  
“It’s none of your business,” Leo grits.  
  
The male hums, and there’s a step forward. A wheezing sound. “Taj is sleeping. Jodi won’t go anywhere without him. Since I’ve named all the friends you’ve managed to make in your life and they’re both busy, who could possibly be waiting for you?”  
  
Leo is quiet. For too long, long enough that anger sparks in his chest, and his fists clench. Who does this male think he is, talking to anyone this way, let alone someone of higher rank? And why isn’t Leo defending himself?  
  
“It’s the prisoner, isn’t it?”  
  
“It’s none of your business.” It sounds flat. Monotone. Like it’s a sentence he’s repeated many times over.  
  
“I think it is my business. If you’re tampering with the plan—”  
  
“—your plan—”  
  
“—then I need to know. And I will know. So who are you going to see?”  
  
“I’m going to the kitchen, alright? To grab a brownie. That’s all.”  
  
It’s quiet.  
  
Then there’s a sudden gasp for air, followed by rough coughing as the male steps back. “Typical. You practically live in the kitchen. But I’ll go out of my way to walk you there. Make sure you’re safe, hm?”  
  
“No,” Leo replies and Cirron cringes at the rough rasp.  
  
“You haven’t seen me in a month. Wouldn’t you like to catch up?”  
  
“No.”  
  
It’s quiet again.  
  
“Fine. I’ll leave you be.” Steps walk away, and the male’s voice fades. “Go easy on the brownies, heir, you’ve gained some weight since I’ve been gone.”  
  
Leo doesn’t say anything, and the steps fade into silence. Cirron manages to hold himself back for a few more seconds until he can’t, turning around the corner and pausing.  
  
Leo’s sitting on the floor against the wall, knees to his chest and rubbing at his quickly bruising neck.  
  
“Leo,” he breathes.  
  
He looks over at him, unsurprised, as if he knew he was there and the familiar prickly sensation of a glamour crawls over him. Leo seems to glow a little brighter too, the edges of his form glimmering as if the sun were shining right behind him. “Sorry you had to see that. Or, uh, hear that. That was… Julien.”  
  
If he’s not mistaken he hears a trace of an accent; the rasped words come out slightly joined, and jump on the tip of his tongue. But he shoves away the questions for a later time and hurries over. “Let me see that bruise.”  
  
He sinks onto his knees next to the other and brings up a hand to inspect the injury.  
  
Leo flinches.  
  
He puts his hand back down.  
  
It’s clear where Julien's hand was, with the dark shapes of thumb and finger pads. The front of his neck is red.  
  
“You never said he abuses you,” he growls. Suddenly he’s more eager to meet Julien for himself. To take the misplaced pride the male has in himself and shatter it to pieces. To remind him exactly the type of fae he answers to.  
  
“Easy, Cirron,” Leo says, and he’s snapped out of his thoughts to find Leo watching him. The whites of his eyes are tinted pink. “It’s okay—”  
  
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”  
  
Leo’s mouth clicks shut.  
  
Neither of them say anything, waiting until Leo’s heartbeat slows and his breathing mostly returns to normal. He tries not to stare at the bruise, tries not to make him uncomfortable but he’s in shock. That this has been happening, and no one has done anything about it.  
  
Not for much longer.  
  
He starts to stand. Leo’s eyes widen, as if he’s worried that he’ll leave but Cirron offers a hand up. “Is there an infirmary here? You need to get that looked at.”  
  
Leo doesn’t take it, keeping his hands tucked into his chest. “It’ll fade.”  
  
“It wouldn’t hurt to get it checked.”  
  
Leo swallows, and winces as he does. “I… I have to go to the kitchen. He’ll make sure that I did.”  
  
Never even met the male and he already hates him. “Fine. But right after we’re going to the infirmary, okay?”  
  
Leo blankly nods, staring at the wall opposite of them.  
  
“Leo?”  
  
“I haven’t gained weight, have I?” It’s faint, almost a whisper. Still with that unfamiliar accent. It sounds sort of like Illyrian, but with a few distinct differences. Again, he pushes it away and refocuses.  
  
“Not in the two weeks I’ve known you, and I’m certain not in the time before I arrived either,” he says firmly. “If you ask Taj or Jodi they’d say the same thing.”  
  
Leo slowly nods and uncurls, taking Cirron’s hand. “You’re right. I… I shouldn’t listen to a word he says.”  
  
“There you go.” He pats Leo’s back when he’s standing. “He has no right to speak to you that way. You’re a better male than he could ever hope to be.”  
  
There’s a trace of a smile. “Thank you.” They start walking down the hallway, slowly so Leo can catch his breath.  
  
The other quietly speaks first. “Now that he’s back, things won’t be so easy.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
Leo shrugs. “This. Walking down a hallway, talking. Laughing in the Open Hall. You never know when he’s around.”  
  
A chill runs down his spine. “Doesn’t he have a job? What was it? An advisor?”  
  
“Yes. But he somehow finds a way to get his work done and annoy me. Sometimes at the same time.” Leo looks over at him, and Cirron’s back straightens at the firm expression. “I don’t want you talking to him.”  
  
He scoffs, glaring right back. “Excuse me?” If Leo thinks he can control who he talks to, he must be out of his curly-headed mind. And where was this attitude five minutes ago?  
  
“Just, hear me out.” Leo takes a deep breath and looks up at the ceiling, and the clear view of the bruises only sours Cirron’s mood further. “It’s an accident waiting to happen. He’s going to be looking for ways to get under your skin. You’ll get on his bad side and he’ll do something crazy.”  
  
Cirron rolls his eyes. “Please, he sounds like every other court rat. I can handle it.”  
  
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” Leo hisses. “I need you to take him seriously.”  
  
“Why?” Cirron stuffs his hands in his pockets harder than he means to. “Maybe you’re taking him too seriously.” His gaze pointedly drops to Leo’s neck.  
  
The other scowls. “What are you saying?”  
  
Maybe he’s speaking out of turn, but it’s too late now. “I’m saying that you’re not fighting back for some reason. Even though all this,” he gestures to the enormous manor around them, “will be yours someday. Even though he’ll always be answering to you. Even though you’re clearly skilled enough to defend yourself. So what’s wrong?”  
  
Leo falls quiet, his jaw tense. His eyes are stormy, and it looks and feels like he wants to say something.  
  
“Leo?”  
  
“Nothing. It’s nothing.”  
  
“Maybe you should talk about it.”  
  
“No.”  
  
Irritation sharpens his voice. “Seriously? You’re going to keep acting like everything is okay?”  
  
Leo meets his icy glare with one of his own, just as sharp. “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”  
  
Neither of them say anything. The hair on the back of his neck raises and his fists clench in his pockets.  
  
Until he marks the pain, and desperation still lingering in the other's expression and he sighs, looking away. “Do what you want.”  
  
Leo sighs too, slumping. Exhausted. “I shouldn’t have snapped. You… probably know what you’re talking about.”  
  
He does, without a doubt. But he didn’t have to be so rude about it. He should remember that things are always more unclear when in the middle of drama. “All of this has been going on for a while, I know.”  
  
“Yeah. It has.”  
  
*********  
  
When he doesn’t elaborate, Cirron leaves it alone, opting to change the subject. “Can I ask you a question?”  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“Your accent. Where is it from?”  
  
When he doesn’t get a reply, he looks over to find a bright red Leo staring at the floor. Cirron blinks, surprised. “It’s okay to have an accent, Leo.”  
  
“I didn’t realize I’d reverted.” Every word is pronounced perfectly. He runs his fingers through his hair. “I usually catch these types of things.”  
  
“Well you were just choked within an inch of your life,” he points out. “That’ll bring it out, probably.”  
  
Leo nods, still bright red.  
  
“Is that why you stumble on your words when you get nervous?”  
  
Leo’s cringing so hard he looks like he’s in physical pain. “Cirron.”  
  
“I don’t mind if it comes out.” He lifts his hands, surrendering. “You don’t have to be so uptight with your pronunciation around me.”  
  
When Leo doesn’t reply, still mortified for some odd reason, he quietly asks, “Do you want to talk about something else?”  
  
“Please.”  
  
“Well, I was working on some designs for your library yesterday.”  
  
“Oh?” The mild interest in Leo’s voice spurs him on.  
  
“Yes. And I have to ask, why is the library so ugly if you’re an artist?”  
  
Leo flushes all over again, and apparently Cirron is just awful at maintaining good conversation today. “I… I wanted to incorporate all the themes of the courts but I got distracted and busy, and it really doesn’t matter what it looks like anymore. The fact that it’s there is enough for me.”  
  
“Well, by the time I’m gone your library is going to be incredible. Spacious, comfortable, and most importantly, matching.” He announces it with enough fervor that the prickly sensation grows and Leo shushes him. But he’s smiling again.  
  
“Okay, okay, I believe you. Can I look at the options later? And give my input?”  
  
“Yes, of course.”  
  
He hears the sounds of the kitchen before they turn the corner and see the familiar archway a little ways down the hall. Light chatter, pots banging, the occasional shout to another, and silverware and dishes clattering.  
  
“Stay by the door okay? And don’t let anyone bump into you.” Leo’s glow fades away, but with a slight gesture the bruises on his neck disappear.  
  
He wants to ask how his power works again, but if he does then Leo will look like he’s talking to himself. The idea is amusing enough that he vows to try it later. Somehow. He obediently leans against the archway as Leo walks right in.  
  
A chorus of greetings go up for him, some even pausing in their work at their stations to wave at him.  
  
“Hi, everyone,” Leo says with a smile that looks like it’s an effort to wear. Not quite the easy grin that Cirron has grown used to lately.  
  
“Lost your voice again?” A female from one of the middle stations asks, and Leo only nods.  
  
“Come try this cake, son,” an older male with peppering dark hair and stern eyes waves him over to his station near the door. A flash of hesitance crosses Leo’s face, but he shakes it off and hurries over.  
  
“What kind is it?”  
  
“You tell me.” The male hands him a hefty slice on a plate, with one of those tiny forks.  
  
Leo cuts himself a piece so small it fits perfectly on the fork, and the male scoffs. “You think my cake is that bad?”  
  
“No, no!” Leo nervously laughs, setting the fork down. “I’m just, you know… watching my weight.”  
  
The male gives him a look so dry that even Cirron cringes. “Watching your weight.”  
  
“Yeah, I mean, I’m in here pretty often… right?” Leo’s red again, not meeting his gaze.  
  
Another male from the station behind them who looks young, maybe in his early forties, turns from the dough he was kneading and frowns at Leo. “You’re like, huge. I think you can stand to eat a slice of cake.”  
  
“Not too often, though,” Leo practically whispers, as if wary to speak his mind. Or upset them further.  
  
“Son, you’re young and ridiculously fit. Every meal you eat is healthy. A few desserts here and there won’t hurt you.” The male picks up the fork and puts it in Leo’s hand. “Is that Julien kid bothering you again? I thought he was kicked out.”  
  
“He wasn’t kicked out, just sent away.” Leo’s free hand drifts over his smooth neck. “But yes, he’s back from his mission.”  
  
“Shame.” The male pushes the plate slightly forward. “Eat. Now.”  
  
“Gaius, stop hogging the boy! Vanni, come try my stew! It’ll help your throat!” A female shouts from across the room, stirring a pot at one of the side stoves.  
  
The male— Gaius huffs, turning around and yelling back, “Wait your turn!” Then he turns back to Leo and eagerly says, “Go on.”  
  
Leo quietly obeys, cutting off a bigger piece and eating it. He smiles around the fork, looking every bit like a satisfied child and Gaius claps his back. “Attaboy. What do you taste?”  
  
“Is this banana and chocolate?”  
  
“What else?”  
  
Leo slices off another piece and eats. His face scrunches with concentration. “Liquor?”  
  
“Obviously. What kind?”  
  
“Rum.”  
  
“Good. How does it taste?”  
  
“Really good.” Leo picks the plate up and starts eating in earnest, stepping away from the counter. “Thanks, Gaius.”  
  
The male watches him eat in approval. “You don’t pay any attention to what that fool tells you, you hear me?”  
  
“Yes sir.” With that Leo walks away, and manages to pass two rows of stations before he’s grabbed by another chef. A cookie is tucked in his hand.  
  
“What do you think is missing?”  
  
Leo smiles at the tall female and takes a bite. His eyes flutter shut with a dreamy smile. “Nothing. At all.”  
  
“Should I add more cinnamon?” She stares at the recipe book in her hands, full of scribbles and notes and arrows. “Or should I replace the cinnamon with nutmeg?”  
  
“Don’t change anything,” he says, taking another bite as he’s dragged away yet again to another station.  
  
And another.  
  
The earlier resistance fades until he’s eagerly accepting treats from everyone. Smiling. Laughing. Picking up desserts and making them vanish with a wave of his hand, for later consumption.  
  
The sight puts Cirron at ease, watching the other build himself back up again.  
  
“Vanni!” A child with dark, wild hair and an eager smile sprints toward him and he holds his arms out. She leaps, laughing as he catches her easily. There’s flour all over her bronze face.  
  
“Busy day, Elsie?” He asks, poking at her cheek and she laughs.  
  
“I made brownies all by myself, do you want any?” Before Leo can reply, she squirms out of his arms and grabs his wrist, dragging him away, “Of course you do. They’re cooling but you can—” she gasps, her free hand waving in the air, “Can you cool them off for me?”  
  
“If you want me to.”  
  
They reach a station where a female who looks similar to Elsie is mixing something and fondly watching the interaction. Sisters, maybe. Probably.  
  
“Hey, Emmie,” Leo says as he picks up Elsie again and sets her on his hip.  
  
“Ah, hi!” She says, pushing the escaped dark tendrils from her faded handkerchief out of her face. Red blooms on her round cheeks as she looks all the way up at him. “What do you need?”  
  
Leo grins. “Well, to say hi, first. And I also came for a brownie and heard that they’re freshly made.”  
  
“Oh. Um…” she trails off and glances at her sister, who’s otherwise busy playing with Leo’s curls. Then she makes a cutting motion at her throat, mouthing _save yourself._ Out loud she says, “They should be cooling in the other room. Elsie, why don’t you go grab one for him?”  
  
“Okay!” The bright child squirms in Leo’s arms again until he sets her down, and she sprints away.  
  
Alone, Emmie lifts up her spoon. It’s coated with chocolate batter, with a good bit of it dripping back into the bowl. “Want to try some?”  
  
_"Yes.”_ He swipes a finger across the falling stream and brings it to his lips, then hums with a content smile. “Incredible as always.”  
  
Emmie smiles and looks away. “Thank you. It’s a new recipe I’m testing. I think it’ll turn out alright.”  
  
“I’m sure it will.” Leo swipes his finger one more time, catching the last of the batter before it stops dripping.  
  
Emmie takes a deep breath and opens her mouth to say something, when Elsie bursts through a side door with a tiny plate. And one misshapen brownie. “Vanni, I have your brownie!”  
  
She leaps at him again, plate in hand and Leo’s eyes widen. The brownie flies off the plate, but Leo catches Elsie with one arm as his other hand shoots out and catches the flying brownie.  
  
Show off.  
  
Emmie turns impossibly redder, even as Elsie throws her arms around his neck. “You’re so cool, Vanni.”  
  
“Don’t jump when you’re carrying food, you know that,” he gently chides.  
  
“Will you eat it now?” She grabs the sides of his face with her small hands, her dark eyes wide.  
  
Leo grimaces. “I have a lot of work to do, so I’ll save it for a snack. You know, while doing boring lord stuff. In fact,” he looks at Emmie, “I need to go. Thank you for the chocolate.”  
  
“Anytime!” Emmie speaks a little bit too loudly for it to be natural. “It was nice seeing you again.”  
  
“You too.”  
  
Just as when he entered, as he leaves he receives another round of farewells. Elsie only slides off of him when he’s nearly at the archway where Cirron waits.  
  
“See you later!” Elsie yells, and sprints away. Apparently walking isn’t in the child’s vocabulary.  
  
Leo walks right past him, glowing again. Cirron silently falls into step with him.  
  
Silently for all of two seconds until he can’t hold it in anymore. “Please tell me you see the way she looks at you.”  
  
Leo chuckles, breaking the brownie in half and offering him one. It’s burnt at the edges, but he takes it anyway. “I do. But I don’t like her that way.”  
  
They take their first bite at the same time and dissolve into harsh coughs. It tastes like egg, somehow. Egg with a hint of cocoa and too much coffee.  
  
He manages to get it down, and says, “You should tell her. It’s a little mean to lead her on.”  
  
“I will tell her. She’s just… been through a lot. I want to make her happy.”  
  
He can understand that.  
  
“Anyone special in your life?” Leo asks.  
  
Mismatched eyes light up his vision, one amber and one sapphire, with full lips pulled in a slight smirk. Countless nights spent in front of his fireplace, with blankets and pillows and hot chocolate and her soft cheek pressed against his chest. Discreet conversations and secrets that only they share.  
  
“Yes,” he replies without question. If he could only figure out how to tell her without having his heart broken. “But she’s also one of my closest friends so… I’m not going to ruin it.”  
  
He’s been fine so far. Sure, it feels like his soul is slowly ripped out of his chest whenever she’s dating someone else and whenever she comes to him in well-hidden tears after a bad break-up. But he’s still alive.  
  
Leo hums. “Sounds miserable.”  
  
The blunt honesty of the statement makes him laugh at his own misfortune. “It is. But it’s this or ruining everything.”  
  
They’re quiet, and he fiddles with his brownie, unwilling to eat it. It’s plucked out of his hands, and Leo makes it disappear.  
  
“You know a lot of fae.”  
  
The other smiles as if he can’t control it. “Yeah. They’re good fae. Honest. It’s refreshing when I visit.” He looks at his own brownie with a small smile, then says, “Most of them have been around since I was young. They’ve watched me grow up.”  
  
“Like… Gaius?” He tries, and Leo’s smile grows.  
  
“Definitely. I like to think that… that I was raised by a lot of fae. Not just my parents. It feels like family here.”  
  
“It certainly looks like family from what I’ve seen.” He grins. “Except for the cute, starry-eyed pastry chef.”  
  
Leo covers his face with a groan and Cirron laughs. “Enough. Please.”  
  
Fine, fine. He changes the topic again.  
  
*********  
  
“How’s your neck?”  
  
It's an abrupt mood-killer of a topic, and Leo cringes like he was physically struck. And Cirron regrets his every decision ever. An apology is on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back; he truly does want to know if he’s healing, even if the question was out of left field.  
  
Leo absently brings a hand to where the bruises once were. A second later they reappear. The redness is gone and they’ve faded a little, but the visual reminder of what happened to the other has hot anger stirring in his chest again.  
  
“Where’s the infirmary?”  
  
“Can we… maybe Matilde can help. I don’t want to run into Father.”  
  
Oh.  
  
Oh.  
  
“Okay,” he says, even as his mind reels. “Have you visited him? Or talked to him since…”  
  
Leo only shakes his head, looking more upset with each passing second.  
  
“Okay, where can we find Matilde?”  
  
“Cirron…”  
  
“Leo—”  
  
“I think I need some time alone.”  
  
He shuts up, staring at the other. There are shadows in his eyes, and his posture is hunched as if his chest is aching. He looks older. Worn in a way that only appears in times like this; when he’s reminded of his, quite frankly, depressing living situation.  
  
*********  
  
Cirron takes a step away. “Okay. I’m sorry for pushing so much.” To his horror, he feels his own insecurity rising, and his fear of messing up. Of disappointing others. He pastes on a shaky smile and jokes, “I’ll be in my room like a good prisoner.”  
  
Leo only winces. “You… you can come with me if you’d like.” It sounds unenthusiastic enough that Cirron manages to crack a real smile.  
  
“I was kidding. It was a bad joke. Everyone needs their alone time, especially when it’s your job to never let me out of your sight.”  
  
Leo cringes again, and a part of Cirron wants to die at the awkwardness. Nothing he says is working, nothing is coming out right. “Maybe you really should come with me.”  
  
He starts to back away. “I promise I’ll be in my room until you come for me. Take a break, you deserve it.”  
  
When Leo finally, quietly agrees he seems to relax with the decision. “Let me winnow you there, at least.”  
  
Before he can protest, Leo grabs his hand and bright light fills his vision. Then they’re outside his door, and Leo lets go. And disappears again.  
  
Alone, he slumps and opens the door.  
  
And freezes.  
  
A male practically identical to Taj is sitting on a couch in the corner seating area, with his well-muscled limbs spread as if he owns the room. His gray eyes are sharp and cold, absent of the warmth that radiates off of his younger brother. Cirron swears he feels chills running up his arms, especially as that cold stare rakes him up and down.  
  
Julien lifts a dark brow that matches the proud quirk of his lips. “So. You’re our prisoner.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Cirron stumbles upon Leo being choked against a wall by Julien, Tamlin's advisor. Julien demands to know where Leo is going, convinced that him and "the prisoner" Cirron are getting along too well, and threatening him. Leo lies and says he was on his way to the kitchen, to which Julien body-shames him as well. Nevertheless, Julien lets him go and Cirron wastes no time trying to help Leo, helping him see the bigger picture of why the situation is wrong on different levels (Julien shouldn't be speaking to him like that in the first place, since he's of lower rank, AND in general the guy is generally awful so Leo shouldn't listen to a word he says regardless of rank). 
> 
> 2\. Cirron asks about the bruises, and Leo shuts down. He doesn't want to go to the infirmary anymore, b/c he'll run into his still healing father, who he hasn't visited or talked to since Cirron's family busted in. Overwhelmed, he impulsively asks for time alone, which sets off Cirron's own insecurities.


End file.
